Argo Navis
by pensandvinyl
Summary: "We've gone up against impossible odds how many times now? But rather than drowning at the Clashing Rocks, sinking to the bottom of the Black Sea like every other ship before it, we've always made it to the other side. Just like the Argo. A little scratched up, maybe, but still just as strong. We can do this. Together." Tallahassee AU.
1. Together

**Chapter 1: Together**

It all started with a remark from a co-worker who had noticed her green-tinged complexion as she stood over the fryer.

"Maybe you're pregnant."

Amusement coated the words of such a ridiculous notion and even Emma, whose prickly demeanor had earned her a reputation of scaring the customers in the recent months, couldn't help but snort at the absurdity of it right along with Mark as he flipped a hamburger.

This proved a nice distraction - diverting her attention from the way her feet throbbed, burning with an ache that had developed during the hours spent standing on them in worn shoes at least a half-size too small. Sweat dripped down her temple too, irritating her skin and sticking to blonde hair that had freed itself from a secure pony tail. Occasionally, Emma would have to wipe at her forehead, pushing her hair back to stop the moisture from sneaking behind her glasses before it could obscure her vision.

This picture went nicely with the inspiration for Mark's comment - Emma swallowing thickly, pushing down yet another wave of nausea, turning slightly so she wouldn't have to watch as the excess grease poured out the side of a vat of fries, barely winning the battle that she had valiantly fought all throughout her shift.

(And nearly every other time they had placed her in front of the fryer before then.)

It was just the heat. The combination of the humid Florida summer and a busy kitchen stuck in the middle of the lunch rush combining to act like a pressure cooker.

"It's like cooking in Hell, really," she would often say, a place Emma regularly compared Florida too. She had endured just about every possible living condition, good and (mostly) bad, throughout her long and colored list of past addresses, but she and Tallahassee's climate had yet to find a way to get along.

(Maybe if it _actually_ had a beach.)

Just the heat.

Because she wasn't pregnant.

She couldn't be.

That was just ridiculous.

( _Right?)_

She snorted derisively once more and moved on. Until she stopped, blinking owlishly, the realization hitting her like a cartoon character taking a ton of bricks to the head, math clicking inside her head, another explanation forming for what she had merely excused as the stress that came with moving and living on the straight and narrow.

Mark slipped the salt shaker out of her hands and Emma blinked again.

" _Shit_." She gave the fries a vigorous shake, attempting to evenly distribute the precarious amount of salt she had apparently poured on during her distraction.

"I was just kidding," Mark insisted, shifting uncomfortably, almost as if him saying the statement somehow made him responsible for it coming true.

"I know." She snatched the salt back, adding a defensive, "And I'm not. Pregnant. I'm not."

"Of course you're not." He looked no more comforted by the words than she felt.

The rest of her day moved like molasses and by the end of her shift the gossip had spread to the entire staff and a good dozen of the patrons. No less than seven of their regulars had congratulated her on the _good_ news and Gretchen had kindly offered to take her to get the test done. But Emma waved her off, wanting ... no, _needing_ the privacy of her own bathroom to try and sort out ... well, whatever _this_ was.

She rushed to the bus stop after clocking out and as she stood, desperately clinging to a metal bar in the middle of a smelly, over-stuffed bus, Emma cursed the stupid generosity of her past self. Because Neal had the car on Wednesdays. Something she had insisted on. She had even tried, of course, pushing it on him every day as his work took him even further downtown than hers at even later hours, but their combined stubbornness had forced them to compromise, both finally agreeing to a daily switch-off.

(Emma really hated the bus.)

She got off a block from their local grocery store and sighed with relief when she passed through the automatic doors, cool air hitting her face, and washing over the thin sheen of sweat that the summer smog had left behind. She meandered through the aisles, willfully distracting herself, putting off the inevitable as she filled a cart with things she and Neal didn't really need until, with nowhere left to go, she came to a stop in front of the home pregnancy kits. Rows and rows of smiling women and fat babies and different brands stared back at her. She looked and looked, scanning prices, wondering if they could really afford to cut corners here but unsure of what she _should_ look for instead.

Her stomach turned, her lunch threatening to make another reappearance and Emma decided screw it, shoving a good half-dozen tests into her cart, later placing them oh-so craftily between the milk and the Lucky Charms. As if that would somehow save her from the knowing glances of the pimply-faced cashier no more than a year or two younger than herself.

(It didn't.)

(At least she didn't steal them.)

Four glasses of water, two bowls of cereal, and three and a half tests later Emma sat on the edge of the tub, shaky hands rubbing up and down her hole-torn jeans as she waited for the second hand on her stolen watch to make its final required round.

The goal here was a negative, obviously, even if logically she knew that one negative couldn't possibly outweigh the three positives already mocking her from the sink alongside that woman, all smiles and glee, they had plastered on the cardboard box. She turned that over, her hand flinching back as if burnt, the expression unfortunately already seared into her brain. _That_ was how a potentially expectant mother should feel. Emma, meanwhile, had only managed to add dread and overwhelming fear to her earlier queasiness.

So, in a manner entirely outside her character, Emma hoped anyway.

At the very least she wanted to be absolutely, one-hundred percent sure when she told Neal.

(She did have to tell him, didn't she?)

"Em?"

She jumped, head turning, wide eyes taking in the whole of the tiny bathroom as if expecting Neal to bypass the door and materialize right there next to her.

He didn't -

"Babe?"

\- But he was right outside now. Emma had completely failed to hear him come in; an especially hard task considering the squeaky door hinges and the 'can't move without tripping over each other' feel of their tiny apartment.

"Fuck," she murmured, springing to her feet, her movements erratic as she stepped toward the door. She should probably just meet him outside, right? Only ... what if he _needed_ the bathroom? Proof positive laid out on the sink for the world to see. Emma turned on a dime, moving to remedy this until, struck by another dizzying wave of nausea, she clutched at the tiled wall, collapsing back onto the edge of the tub.

"You in here?" Knuckles rapped on the door.

He'd always had horrible timing, popping up at the least opportune times. Like in the middle of a car heist or when she tried to sort through her dirty laundry - hole torn bras and underwear unfortunately included.

"Yeah," she replied, calling out to him. Or she tried to. But the word caught in her throat, coming out in this frog-like, croaky-whisper thing. Barely able to hear it herself, she kinda doubted that Neal had managed to catch it, forcing her to try again.

"Hey." And typical Neal, he kept his voice all low and easy going. _Relaxed._ She could practically see him in her mind leaning right up against the bathroom door, never mind what she might be doing. Living together in the bug for six months had made them both somewhat negligent of things like privacy and personal space. But even if he did have a habit of lingering-borderline-hovering (how she viewed it depended solely on her mood), Emma also knew that, locked or not, he wouldn't just barge in.

(Still. She had definitely remembered to lock the door.)

Emma swallowed thickly and, as her leg shook, bouncing up and down involuntarily in a way that had nothing to do with a musical beat, she managed a hesitant, "Hey," putting forth a great effort to sound normal and not at all completely freaked out.

(She'd give herself a six, maybe seven, for execution.)

Neal, far too used to picking up the slack when she failed to carry the conversation (a fairly common occurrence), starting talking - this sea of white noise downed out easily by her own running thoughts. Quietly as she could, considering everything in their apartment squeaked, creaked, or clattered, she unrolled some toilet paper and began to wrap the tests up in it. She wanted, half-desperately, to focus on him and, at the very least, the low baritone of his voice (because it was soothing and, maybe, when she wasn't freaking out, a bit of a turn on), but noting that the last stick had pumped out a nice, clear plus sign too only caused another horrifying wave of panic to wash over her. Thoughts (how could she have been so stupid), and worries (they barely made enough money to support themselves), and worst case scenarios (this would obviously send Neal running) assaulted her mind and only the sound of her name, in the form of a sharp but worried question, managed to break through, drawing Emma back to the present as she tried to swallow past the growing lump in her throat.

"Yeah?" The single word came out with far more apprehension than she would have liked.

(Sooner or later she should probably try to at least start moving past the monosyllables and one-word answers.)

Neal didn't notice, his voice holding only the bare bones of concern as he asked, "Everything alright?" Maybe he suspected that she had a bad day, but he certainly wasn't worried about the prospect of something catastrophic and life-changing having occurred since they had parted ways that morning.

(This would change everything.)

"Fine," she insisted in this bright sort of way that wouldn't even fit Emma at her happiest. She had to tell him. Something. She both knew and planned on that. Still trying to wrap her head around the concept herself, however, meant she just ... hadn't quite figured out the how of it all yet. Not in a way that didn't include her usual bluntness. So, in typical Emma fashion, she focused on something a bit more practical.

And far less emotionally taxing.

"I went shopping," she told him, "I got cereal and pasta and those cookies you like. You know, with the chocolate and the peanut butter. And -"

The door rattled, the handle jostling, Emma's attempts at small talk (her fatal mistake) getting cut off as Neal tested the door, obviously trying to see if she had, maybe, left it unlocked and then sighing with the realization that she hadn't.

"Emma, baby," his tone had changed, the words thick and laced with obvious worry, "What's going on?"

That automatic nothing was ready, halfway off her tongue before she snapped her mouth closed. One more single word answer really would have Neal picking the lock so she turned the word into a sigh, a heavy sort of thing, before admitting, "I need to tell you something."

She sounded small.

Neal didn't miss a beat.

"You can tell me anything." He kept his words sincere but calculated, putting forth an obvious effort to both stay calm and soothe her. A nice attempt, really, and one that she appreciated. It just didn't work because, well, she had already passed a certain level of freaked out-ness. "C'mon out. I'll put the water on for the hot chocolate and we'll talk."

But Emma didn't bite either because quite suddenly, she didn't want to leave their small, cramped bathroom. _Ever._ Call it irrational, especially for her, but the door that separated them had become her safety net. Her buffer, really. Because right now everything bad and terrifying existed inside their ridiculously tiny bathroom while everything good and safe remained outside of it, on the other side of that door, completely unblemished. That's how she wanted it to stay. She didn't want to see the look of horror that would inevitably grace Neal's face when she told him. And she definitely didn't want to face the Neal-shaped hole he would leave behind when he went running for the nearest exit. Because it had to end that way, didn't it? This would be what finally pushed him over the edge, officially marking the difference between a young couple playing house and the cold shower of reality.

How could it possibly go any other way?

(She just needed to get it over with.) (Before she somehow managed to talk herself out of it.) (Though, honestly, did he really even need to know?) (Scratch that. Bad question.) (Of course yes.) (Yes, he did.)

"We'll work through it, baby," he insisted after a tense moment, "whatever it is."

"It's kind of big." Okay, understatement. "Really big, actually." And then, finally, "I'm pregnant."

The words just sort of burst out of her, getting jammed together in her attempt to pull off the proverbial Band-Aid. Maybe she should try repeating them? Just to make sure Neal had heard her correctly. But instead she just let it hang there, awkward and terrifying, waiting to see if the next sound to reach her ears involved the front door slamming shut.

It wasn't.

After a tense period of silence, one of the longest she ever had to endure and second only to the one that had followed the equally terrifying admission that she loved him, the familiar sounds of a fellow thief at work reached her ears.

 _Now_ he picked the lock.

Emma rolled her eyes and unlocked the door, causing it to swing open unexpectedly and giving Neal, who muttered a distracted, " _Shit,"_ as he tumbled into the bathroom, a more comical entrance than he obviously intended.

"Hey," he murmured, sounding awkward as he sat down on the tub somewhere near her, but not right up against her like he would have usually. And okay, honestly, no more than an inch of space sat between them, but in that ridiculously tense moment it felt like a mile.

"Hey." She kept the word tentative, eyes trained on her lap because she hadn't quite figured out how to look at him just yet. Not even when he had already managed to surpass her expectations.

A heavy and all-to awkward silence fell over them, but in her own weird way Emma found it kind of comforting. Well, almost. _Obviously_ she didn't know what else to say, but neither did Neal apparently. And he always had a cup overflowing with shit to say. So equal footing. Good. Emma liked that.

She settled on unwrapping the tests, laying the four whites sticks and their positive results haphazardly across her lap atop their toilet paper wrapper, deciding to give him everything she knew (which, admittedly, wasn't very much).

"I think it happened in Portland." Eyes still trained on her lap, she watched as one of the tests disappeared, gently picked up by Neal's unusually hesitant hand for him to examine. "It's been a couple of months since I ..." Well, he probably didn't want to hear about that so she rushed ahead, the heat rising in her cheeks. "I thought it was just stress. From all the changes, y'know? But I guess not."

She sniffed and then, whispered to her lap like a dark secret, she added, "I'm scared, Neal."

"Emma," he breathed, her name heavy and weighted down with understanding and remorse, as if he knew that he couldn't say or do anything just then that would suddenly make this huge, terrifying thing any better or less fear-inducing. Something that, for Neal, risked turning into a guilt that would eat away at him if left unchecked. But, at the same time, that single murmur of her name also told Emma that he hadn't necessarily given up on trying to find the right words for her either.

(She liked that. The trying. Because he was still there.)

He swore under his breath and the remaining tests disappeared from her lap, finding their way back to the sink before Neal returned to her side. Minus the space this time. Instead he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against him, slightly chapped lips kissing the top of her head as she burrowed into the space between his neck and shoulder while one of his rough, calloused hands found a sweaty one of hers, squeezing tightly with silent promises and reassurance.

"We'll figure this out, okay?" he whispered passionately somewhere near her ear. "Like everything else. Together."

Emma pulled back, just enough so that she could look at him. Like really look at him, taking in the determined set of his jaw and the spark in his eyes. The intensity of it, the _certainty_ , nearly took her breath away and, just for a moment, it manage to put all her worries and doubts on a sort of mute. Because right then (and before too) he had managed to do something for her that no one else had. He stayed.

Naturally, she still had her doubts. Figuring things out, as he said, seemed like an impossible, herculean task. Because how? How could two former thieves with a shit-hole apartment, furniture liberated from the curb, and only a few bucks to their name possibly go up against this huge, life-changing thing with any sort of success?

But even then Neal had managed to stumble on the one thing that had any chance of making her feel better in that moment.

(Only of course he had said it purposefully because he knew her and exactly what she needed because he needed those things too and so really, how could she have possibly thought he'd just leave so callously?)

(Maybe because it was what everyone else had always done.)

"Together," she echoed, testing the word before her lips inched up, hinting at the ghost of a smile.

"Together," he repeated, firmly, leaning into her playfully. "It's in the rules, remember? And who knows, right? A baby might be fun. I always -"

Emma blinked and then cut him off, refusing to wait to find out what he always, instead focusing on: "Baby? You want to keep it?"

"Well, yeah." His brow furrowed. "What else would we do with ..." He caught on and his shoulders slumped a bit, " _Oh_."

"I hadn't thought about it." Honestly, still stuck on the pregnant part of it all, Emma hadn't even had time to get to baby yet.

That probably came next in the list of steps though, huh?

But here's the thing: Emma didn't know that much about biology or science or where she came down on the 'exact beginnings of human life' question and so, other than maybe a pro-choice stance, she had never really thought about what she would _personally_ do if she ever found herself in that ... _ _this__ particular situation.

(Because she was only seventeen and she was always so careful.) (Well, sorta.) (She might have, _obviously_ , gotten caught up in things.) (Once or twice.) ( _Maybe_.)

Now obviously, she knew what she couldn't do. Because she couldn't do anything remotely like what her parents had done to her. Or Neal's even, considering what little she knew about his murky history.

That wasn't the same as this. Not exactly. But that didn't stop it from pulling at her gut, twisting into something akin to guilt. Because she had made a choice, stupid as it was, and now she had to deal with the fallout. She could just push it down, lock it up, and forget it existed like she did with everything else she didn't feel equipped to deal with.

(Like her parents had so obviously done with her.)

"That's okay." Neal was all awkward supportiveness as his voice cut through her thoughts. "We've got time."

(She could at least let him in on the thought process.)

"I just don't want to be like them." A hint of disgust laced her final word, the statement bursting out of her because she absolutely could not let herself turn into anything remotely like the people who had thrown her away like used trash, not even considering her worthy enough to find a fucking hospital. She just couldn't. "I wanna do better. So I want to have it and I want it to have a home. And maybe that's not with us." Like she said she hadn't gotten that far just yet. "But we could at least find it one, couldn't we?"

And, okay, maybe it was stupid and just a tad irrational to base a major life decision like bringing a child into the world on showing up two people she had never even met, but this urge had taken root deep within her very core, pushing her. She _needed_ to do better than them. As if this was a test and her actions would produce the results that could, potentially, mark the difference between the woman she hoped to become and the scared, lost girl she couldn't quite shake.

"We are not like them, Emma." He managed to rival the firmness made in his earlier vow of together. "We're not. So yes, we'll give this baby everything we didn't have. I promise. Family, a home." And then, more hesitantly, as if testing an invisible line, "love."

Dread meant she couldn't even offer Neal some of her trademark skepticism in the face of his own idealistic optimism. "We don't have anything."

Neal, however, stood his ground. "We have the important things. And the rest we can figure out." A beat. "If you want."

" _Neal."_

This time she did load down his name with skepticism, mixing it with her continued uncertainty, only trailing off when she caught a glimpse of those puppy dog eyes and that earnest expression, both of which made Emma want to do all sorts of ridiculous things like believe in the impossible. Impossible like Tallahassee. But she had to think realistically. Because realistically they had to consider the fact that they barely did well enough for themselves. Which fine. Emma didn't need or want big and fancy, and maybe she'd always figured that if Tallahassee got to be too much then they could always just chalk it up to some sort of failed experiment and go back to living out of the bug. But they couldn't do that with a baby. Babies needed things and things cost money. Money that Neal didn't make nearly enough of at his miserable excuse of a job that he had secured under his new fake name and she only had that stupid part-time gig where she barely made minimum wage. Getting that had been a near-impossible task for a teenager without even a diploma to her name so Emma couldn't exactly imagine adding pregnant to the list and suddenly finding something better.

(None of that, by the way, even took into consideration that she knew absolute shit about kids and parenting.)

"We could do it," he insisted with far too much confidence for someone who had endured everything they had. She didn't understand it. How he continually held onto all that hope and optimism that the hard slap of reality had beaten out of her so long ago.

(A part of her couldn't help but admire him for it, wishing she could somehow do the same.)

She pressed her lips together, chin pointed down as she looked at him over her glasses, offering a wry, "You said that about Tallahassee."

Neal ran a hand through his hair, pausing where wild curls met skin to rub the back of his neck, his jaw turning into a tense line. She had treaded too close to dangerous ground, somehow stumbling upon a remarkably similar start to their first big argument, about a month or so into their new adventure when Emma had decided that they obviously weren't cut out for Tallahassee and when he had accused her of giving up, she had made a shot about his naivety and things had escalated from there, both obviously too tired and too cranky to care that they had laced their words with cruelty and unfairness.

(It had all led to some pretty fucking fantastic make up sex, though. Y'know, day later when they could no longer stand the not talking thing and just apologized, both agreeing to meet somewhere in the middle, Emma promising to not give up so easily while Neal swore that he would start taking their situation more seriously by looking at things with a bit more realism.)

"I didn't mean it like that." She rushed to get the words out." I just don't want this to be like everything else, where we just decide something on a whim. We can't. Because it's more than just us now, y'know?"

"I know." Quiet contriteness shifted back to his earlier resolve. "And it won't be. But Emma, baby, it's like you said, right? You don't wanna be like your parents. Well, I don't want to be like mine either. So If I honestly thought I'd turn into a dick or that I'd go looking for an out five or ten years down the line then I wouldn't say that I could do this. But I think that I can. I want to. And I _know_ we could do it."

He believed that. She could just tell. But as much as Emma wanted to believe that his words would stay true forever, she knew that no one could really say where they would find themselves in five or even ten years down the line. People change. Neal had even said as much about his own father.

(And they couldn't just think about themselves anymore. No matter what they decided to do.)

Emma sighed and leaned back into his side. He smelled like cardboard and dust and not at all very Neal-like. Not that she had any room to talk. Sometimes it felt like she just sweated pure fast-food grease - what, with the way it seemed to ooze from her pours.

They worked. Ate. Slept. Then worked some more. That's all they did now. With an added emphasis on work.

Emma wanted to sleep, just sleep, for like a year.

(Maybe then, when she woke up, everything would have sorted itself out.)

But that wasn't practical or remotely productive and so Emma forced herself to move beyond those four tiny plus signs. This seemed like confirmation enough, really, but a doctor could tell them when and maybe what next. Never mind what they would ultimately decided or even what they could afford. Because experts? They came with information, advice, and possibly judgment. Two of those things, at least, led to informed decisions.

(Hopefully.)

"Let's find a doctor first. Check things out. Before we try and decide anything."

Neal nodded minutely, "Yeah, sounds like a good idea." His lips found her temple once more, fingers trailing a soothing path up and down her arm. "We're gonna be okay, y'know? It's like I said. We'll figure it out. Together."

Emma still couldn't say the same. Not with any confidence or certainty. But the simple fact that she wouldn't be alone helped ease her worried thoughts. To the point, even, that she no longer felt like she might lose her lunch.

"Together."

And for now that was more than enough.


	2. John Neilson

**Chapter 2: John Neilson**

They had left Portland, giddy with the knowledge that they had added twenty-thousand dollars to their name and no further incidents. But despite the lack of cars on their tail, marked or otherwise, they didn't weave a straight line from Oregon to Florida, instead swinging by one of Emma's old contacts in Tennessee. She introduced Neal to a man she called Jay, who knew his way around a computer. He would help them get new plates and a fresh VIN number for the bug, as well as secure a new identity for Neal.

For a pretty hefty price.

"That's most of what we got." Neal shot Jay a suspicious glance even as Emma dragged him to a remote corner, presumably out of earshot.

"And all of it'll mean shit if you get pulled over for something stupid like a busted tail light," Emma shot back before softening, bumping his shoulder with hers. "It's worth it if it keeps you out of trouble."

He smiled softly, her words warming him as he let the subject drop, leaving behind only a trace of worry. He tried not to dwell on it, the what if's, but a part of Neal would probably always wonder if he had done the right thing. They could have parted ways, back in Portland, and Emma would have had the chance to move on to far bigger and better things rather than attaching herself to a wanted man.

(He still liked this idea, the one where they got to stay together, better.)

And so, on paper, he had received all sorts of new things. Including, of course, a fresh name, allowing the wanted-by-law Neal Cassidy to officially fade away into law-abiding citizen John Neilson.

(Fact number one about John Neison: His girlfriend liked to call him Neal.)

Just settling on a new name though had turned into a long and somewhat tedious process. And while he liked John, picking it for a very specific reason, Neal would have preferred something a little less common and generic.

"You want common." Jay looked up from where he was typing furiously on his laptop. "Common helps you blend. Keeps the attention off."

He knew this, of course, having already gone to this zoo (that wasn't exactly right, was it? Circus, maybe? No? Well, _whatever_.). Still, he would have preferred his first pick: George Michael.

Upon hearing it Emma immediately threw down her veto with an obvious frown. "It's just not ... you, y'know? Besides you have to get over this habit you have of naming yourself after people that already exist. It creates a pattern."

Confused, Neal furrowed his brow. "What?"

He had, very carefully, fashioned something original this time. After all, he could have just gone down the more emotional route and tried for George Darling or something.

(And while he fucking hated the way the stories in this world tended to romanticize Pan and Neverland, Neal at least appreciated that they had gotten the Darlings right. They deserved that. He just would have liked, maybe, the chance to honor them himself - y'know, without the connection immediately coming back to a historically inaccurate, and therefore life-threatening, kid's movie.)

"George Michael." He looked at her blankly because obviously just repeating the name wasn't going to help and she elaborated. "The singer."

Jay did more of his furious typing before turning the computer around, revealing a fansite and letting Neal put a face to the name.

Right.

They moved on.

Emma eventually picked Neilson, offering a practical, "So I can still call you Neal."

He settled on John so that he could, maybe, still pay tribute to the Darlings in his own little way and because Emma had scrunched her nose distastefully at both George and Michael.

("People might try to call you Mike." She stressed the 'k' in a way no one actually would. "And George just sounds old.")

To go with his new name, Neal also got new stats and a footprint that extended backwards, creating a fake history and making this identity far more real than any of the others he had adopted and discarded during his time in a Land Without Magic. Now he had things like a birth certificate and a social security card as well as a paper trail that had granted him a diploma, a somewhat decent credit score, and a pretty extensive job history. He had even adopted the very dead June and Matthew Neilson from Connecticut as his parents.

It all cost a pretty penny, setting them back before they'd even really had a chance to get started. But taking in what it had gotten them - a roof and jobs and _home_ \- Neal could agree that they had gotten their money's worth. Because broke and together definitely remained a vast improvement over jail.

After, when they had set off nearly a week later (paperwork in tow), Emma popped a disc into the music player, and a spunky beat faded into words, an unfamiliar voice singing, 'Well I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body ...'

Unable to help himself, Neal smirked in amusement before Emma held up the case, finger tapping the plastic, smugly informing him, "George Michael."

(What followed had mostly involved Emma giggling like a mad woman as she quizzed him, digging for any other glaring holes in his musical history.)

They kept the song on repeat until somewhere in Georgia when, at his insistence, they followed a series of signs, stopping off at an estate sale, allowing Neal to unwrap one of his hidden passions to Emma. One of those things that they hadn't gotten a chance to explore back in Portland due to no money and a lack of space to store things.

He flicked through a box of old records adding, "I love the search," when Emma made a pointed complaint that he didn't have anything to play them on so why bother ( _that_ , and she just really hated shopping). "There's that moment, y'know? The one after a long hunt, when you've given up on actually finding anything good and then ... _B_ _am."_

He revealed a frayed album, the faded letters on the cover spelling out _Only You_ by Yazoo and prompting Emma to roll her eyes in that way she did whenever she thought he was being too cheesy. He leaned in close like he would in those quiet moments when he'd whisper lyrics in her ear and continued, voice low and husky in that way he knew she liked, "The haggling starts. A fiery debate between patron and owner, prices firing back and forth until, finally, the owner relents and I get to steal on a steal."

Not that he had ever actually stolen anything from a garage sale. He had drawn a line in the sand sometime ago, marking the difference between necessities and things with actual value. Things like precious family heirlooms with an irreplaceable history.

(Stealing the watches had skirted close to breaking that rule and look where it had almost landed him.)

In addition to an album he couldn't play ("That," he told a skeptical Emma, "doesn't take away its sentimental value."), he also picked out a cuckoo clock and, following Emma's patented eye roll, he shared an elaborate history of their origin (such as, "They originated in Schwarzwarld. The German Black Forest."), before entering into a well-crafted dance with the owner. But later, after they had parked the bug somewhere out of the way of prying eyes, Emma launched an assault on his neck, demanding that he repeat other historical facts to her between crafting a convincing case on why, exactly, he thought she should remove her clothes. Because Neal had learned that, despite all the complaints and eye-rolling, she had found the whole thing incredibly sexy.

He eventually hung the clock up in their kitchen, but only after further impressing Emma by fixing the broken mechanics inside (and nearly making up for her displeasure following the discovery that he had knowingly bought it broke to begin with). Both that and the album went nicely with a set of mismatched, hand-painted plates they had picked up and a reportedly rare copper lamp (chosen because Emma happened to like the dragonfly design on the shade). Those items, along with the dreamcatcher, became the first additions to their new home. It wasn't much, of course, but they gave their place that special touch, giving it a lived in feel rather than something empty and sterile.

Unfortunately all of this meant that money had remained their primary concern from the very beginning, making things far more difficult than the picture they'd originally painted over a map in an abandoned hotel room.

(They, meaning Emma, had the forethought, at least, to save enough first and last month's rent, letting them luck into an apartment on their first run through. Well that, and their own low expectations.)

Neal, however, refused to give up. This life, here with Emma, meant something to him, making the hardships they had endured since arriving in Tallahassee more than worth it. So he would continue to insist that they stay on the straight and narrow and Emma mostly went along with it, even if she had a harder time seeing the same bright future he so easily envisioned, getting stuck instead on the stormy clouds that had haunted their steps since Portland in the form of an unfulfilled threat.

Then two became three and things got complicated.

(Not bad. Just complicated.)

They didn't talk about it. At all. Emma only skirting the bare edges of the apparently forbidden topic when she announced that she had made an appointment at the free clinic for the following week.

"Can I come?" Neal asked over his pizza crust. He had told her they would do this together, and he had meant that, but would Emma want that promise to extend to things like doctors visits too?

Emma shrugged and jerked her head in a single nod. "If you want."

She didn't look at him.

But huddled up together in the bug for six months meant he had gotten to know Emma pretty well. Back-of-his-own-hand well (a thing he quite liked to tease her about). He knew what she had told him ("Fourteen," she had said, fingers picking at a paper label on her stolen coke bottle. "I've been in fourteen foster homes. The last one didn't even last a month."). He knew what he had observed (her passion for food had, apparently, no limits and the ending of E.T., which they had caught from a distance near an old Drive Thru, made her cry).

And then there were the things she hadn't shared with him at all.

Things like the fact that she still worried that Tallahassee wouldn't work out the way they wanted - Neal would prove her wrong on that - or that Emma, as soon as she possibly could, would seek out the local library and scan databases whenever they arrived in a new city, hoping to find something that might point her in the direction of her long-lost parents. She had done it in Portland, had disappeared at some ridiculous hour when they had stopped in Georgia, and, of course, had done much the same after they had settled in Florida. And after, for some strange reason, she'd bring him doughnuts.

"Because everyone deserves to know why," she had said, passing a bottle of stolen scotch between them as they laid out on a worn blanket beneath the starry night sky. She didn't bother with specifics, but the longing look she gave the stars said enough. She wanted the answer to who just as much as the way.

Frustratingly enough, however, Emma had become impossible to read since that day in the bathroom.

Here's what he did know: Emma, if he wanted to avoid arguments and such, liked (and needed) her space whenever it came to processing the new stuff. Or just the plain big.

He had discovered this shortly after their relationship had shifted from partners-slash-friends to something more than. Because even if she had mostly made the first move (though she liked to argue-slash-tease that two moves had been made prior to what he called their first kiss), she had also woken up the next morning where she had curled up against his side, and promptly (albeit privately) freaked out about ruining a good thing because, according to her (and he could agree), it was one of the only good things they had. She had even managed, despite their tight living quarters, to successfully avoid talking to him for days. But then (he still couldn't say how, exactly) she had reached some sort of conclusion all on her own, turning to him in the middle of Charley's Girl to lay out a series of ground rules (all of which served as a poor imitation of what had later become their official list) for how things would work going forward if they were going to add feelings to the mix.

(He'd neglected to tell her that it was already a bit too late on that one.)

So he didn't worry and just expected, perhaps naively, that things would play out much the same this time around. So he waited. Because he wanted to give that space to her. He did. And he tried. He just would have like it though if they had, maybe, talked about something (anything, really) else while he gave her said space. But they didn't. Well, she didn't. Again, Neal tried, but Emma had surpassed the guarded girl he had first met, retreating far beyond walls that he hadn't figured out how to break down just yet.

He got a whole week full of this non-angry, but still stony silent treatment.

It worried him. More than Neal cared to admit. And he didn't just worry that Emma had already made up her mind, deciding that she wanted to give away the baby. But also that, at the end of everything, there would no longer be enough of them to salvage and piece back together.

It didn't help that the boundaries of the situation felt blurry at best, filling Neal with an anxious unease as he struggled to determine exactly how much of a right he had to really assert his own wishes in this situation. Neal knew what he wanted, and it surprised him how deep that want really went. But he absolutely understood why Emma had the concerns she did. Because of course he worried about those things too. He couldn't even fully expect her to turn everything on its head for something they hadn't planned. Quite suddenly Emma found herself faced with this difficult, life-changing decision and a part of Neal really hated himself for the role he had played in the irresponsible behavior that had led them both here.

(But fuck. He wanted this baby.)

Then they went to the clinic. Already nearing the four-month mark, they (or some other strange couple, he supposed) would have a baby by the beginning of December. They even heard the heartbeat as Emma, he couldn't help but note, stared stonily at a point just beyond the screen.

Meanwhile Neal, who had always believed in things bigger than himself, considered the sound and the tiny little speck of a thing growing inside the safety of Emma's body the living embodiment of the fact that miracles absolutely did exist.

(They made that.)

(Really.)

(Already, Neal loved this child.)

He had hoped, maybe, that they would finally talk about it after that, but then a week passed. And then another. Then, finally, Neal broke, his frustration and nerves bursting out of him as he slammed the ultrasound down on their rickety patio-slash-kitchen table after a particularly tense breakfast.

(He had taken to carrying it in his wallet ever since the ultrasound, pulling it out and looking at it whenever he had a moment to himself, tracing the lines of their child, a warm feeling settling in his chest.)

Emma winced. An action that would normally send Neal rushing toward an apologetic fit, but they absolutely had to talk about this.

He said as much out loud.

Emma agreed.

More silence followed.

Neal studied her. Really studied, taking in her ponytail, flower-patterned dress, the hands fidgeting in her lap, and the half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms in front of her. All stark reminders that, despite the shit she had endured in her life, there were still ways in which she remained very young.

The both of them, really.

He had put up with a hundred plus years of torment in Neverland before finally escaping to a new world that required very different tactics to survive, all forcing him to learn how to look out for number one from a ridiculous young age. But yeah, sometimes, he still felt like that emotionally naive fourteen-year-old that had stupidly believed his father really wanted to give up magic so they could start over together.

Abandonment made you grow up real quick, but it stunted you too.

Tense lines faded, softening into understanding as the thought forced him to calm his sudden burst of anger. "Look, Em. I know what I said. About wanting to keep the baby. And I meant that, but that doesn't mean I won't be right there with you if we decide to do something different."

"I know." Her reply came quick, almost defensive, but Neal hadn't quite finished yet.

"But you have to let me in on the thought process." This was an indirect but very pointed reminder of Rule Number Two - they always make decisions together.

He got a jerky nod and then more silence. Should he push his luck? Or let it drop for now and hope Emma would come to him when she finally gathered her thoughts. But then, rather abruptly, the words just burst out of, "I screwed up."

Neal opened his mouth, floundering and gaping like a fish because, if anything, they screwed up, he'd insist on that, and even then he thought the phrase kinda fell on the strong side when trying to describe their obviously unexpected situation. But Emma hadn't finished either.

"I hate kids, Neal. Really. Hate them. Especially the little ones. They were all over the foster homes and they cry, like, all the time. They steal your shit and then they break it. They're sticky. And they always, _always,_ " she sighed, as if getting ready to admit something she wasn't particularly proud of, "get picked first. Except when they don't. And then I just felt sorry for them because each time you get passed over the less likely you'll ever get picked for anything other than getting bounced around for the long haul. Which really sucks. And I never wanted kids. But I always thought that if I did have them then they'd be planned, y'know? I'd be older and settled down with a good job, some money saved, and maybe even a house. And the baby would be a decision we made. Together. Something that we wanted and cherished and couldn't ever imagine not having, you know? Like we couldn't live without it."

 _That_ took first place for the most he'd ever heard Emma say in one go. So much so that it required a certain amount of effort to keep a mask in place, hiding the emotions that her sudden speech had inspired. Nothing bad, really, but Emma would likely mistake his very mild amusement as something cruel and teasing and the last thing Neal wanted was to discourage her from sharing with him in the future. Because he knew she didn't like it. Talking about her feelings.

(And sometimes just talking in general.)

"Emma, just because a baby isn't planned doesn't mean it isn't wanted."

"But it'll know," she insisted, "even if we keep it - it'll be a thought in the back of its mind. It'll know that it was an accident and it'll always wonder if we wished things wound up differently."

Neal shook his head and knelt down in front of her, tucking a missed strand of hair behind her ear before he cupped her cheek, soft and yet firm, making sure Emma looked at him as he said this very important thing.

"He'll know that even if he was an accident that we still made the choice to keep him. And she won't wonder because she'll know that she's loved. Because we'll tell him. Everyday. That's what parents - the good ones, at least - do. Or," because Neal didn't want to pressure her with assumptions, "even if we give her up then she'll realize that we did it because we wanted what was best for her and that whatever lucky family we pick did choose him even if we couldn't. And," here he took on a lighter tone, "I'm pretty sure hating kids that aren't yours is a universal thing."

Emma snorted, showing the bare bones of a smile that let Neal break out into a grin of his own. But before he could really tease her about it, maybe even try to turn it into that toothy grin of hers that he loved so much, she sobered, "We screwed up."

"Maybe," he agreed, "but that doesn't mean we can't fix it."

Her hands twitched in her lap and Neal took the initiative, covering her hand with his, threading their fingers together. It hit him then, as her sweaty hand squeezed his work-calloused fingers, that they hadn't really touched since that day in the bathroom.

"I don't know what to do" The admission exited as this quiet thing but managed to still _feel_ big. Probably because it was the sort of thing Emma wouldn't normally admit to feeling due to the fact that it left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Emma didn't appreciate false platitudes so that only left Neal with one option - honesty. "Me either, but I think the fact that we care so much is a good sign."

Emma smiled, quick and tight, and then took some initiative of her own, wrapping her arms around him and burrowing into his shoulder, moving to kneel with him on the ground. "I love you," she murmured, nose pressing into his shoulder and glasses digging into his neck before she pulled back, gazing at him with an intense sincerity.

Neal brushed his lips against hers before resting his forehead against hers and, for the first time in weeks, he could finally breathe easy.

"I love you too."

Emma smiled, this big and brilliant thing that he couldn't help but match, and for a while they simply stayed there in each other's arms. They hadn't solved anything. Not really. But for the first time since this whole thing had started Neal let himself really, truly believe that what he had said to Emma would come to pass and that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out in their favor, after all.


	3. Operation Hope

**Chapter 3: Operation Hope**

Things returned to normal.

Well. Emma had started talking to him again, something that allowed them to ease back into a sort of equilibrium that Neal had accepted as their _new_ normal.

(Because everything had changed. They couldn't just ignore that.)

They had even started moving towards the giant elephant in the room. Not that they ever actually reached it, Emma pointedly avoiding the heavier, more emotional topics in favor of those on the lighter side of spectrum, clearly distancing them from the big, unanswered question. They'd have to face it eventually, of course, but Neal went with it, considering this an okay compromise because at least they had stopped ignoring the subject completely.

Health-wise, the doctor insisted that Emma was in pretty good shape, even if she had gone four months without taking the proper precautions. But they didn't smoke or do drugs and for the first time Neal found himself kinda thankful for their shitty incomes because that meant they hadn't been drinking either. Emma pointedly complained about the no caffeine rule every morning at breakfast (and every other chance she got), but she could at least have her favored hot chocolate, something that mollified her slightly. And while they had never really bothered to cook with the food pyramid in mind before, Neal went out and bought as much healthy shit as they could afford, knowing that Emma would eat whatever if only because no matter how much she disliked something, she hated the idea of waste even more.

Money, of course, still remained their biggest, most immediate concern because even if they hadn't decided whether or not they would actually keep the baby, they still had to bring him or her into the world. Generally, that involved a hospital and all sorts of expensive things.

They didn't even have insurance.

(And, after stripping to thoroughly _investigate_ Emma's increasing bust size, they also realized new clothes would make its way to the list of priorities sometime in the near future.)

"I'll get a second job," said Neal as they looked over a surprisingly expensive bill for prenatal vitamins.

This, _somehow,_ turned into an argument, Emma calling him and his idea absolutely ridiculous considering, according to her, his stupid job already made him completely miserable so how in the world would adding a second make things better.

(He worked in a factory.) (And while not the most exciting job in the world, he wouldn't call something that helped pay the bills _miserable._ ) (It was _just_ a job.) (And, really, anything that _wasn't_ Neverland or a workhouse in Victorian London got paradise-like status in his book.)

"But you _will_ be exhausted," she pointed out, "and with a baby to take care of that's only going to get worse."

That marked the first time Emma had alluded to even the _mere_ possibility of keeping the baby. And, from the obvious lack of shock on her face or any attempts to backtrack to correct the possible mistake, she had obviously failed to notice her slip. Something Neal knew better than to point out. Because Emma was strong and brave in so many ways, but in others she was like a rabbit - scared and skittish and easily spooked. So he couldn't address something like that directly, but he took note of the subtle shift in her thought process and agreed to a compromise. He wouldn't get a second job, but he would look for a better one.

Easier said than done.

Neal knew that people looked at him and assumed things. Things like uneducated lay-about. Screw-up. Even druggie, maybe. They saw someone destined for failure and someone who, obviously, had never tried hard enough, therefore earning his place among the dregs of society. But when you start in the hole, it makes climbing out a helluva lot harder. He had tried. Over and over again. But eventually he'd found himself facing a choice that he imagined a lot of people had to face. He could continue climbing and falling on his ass or he could survive.

And, between acquiring the Dark One as his father, Victorian London, and Neverland, he had gotten really good at that. Surviving. Neverland alone had done many things _to_ Neal and exactly one thing _for_ him. It had made him stronger, giving him the means to develop a certain set of skills, born out of necessity, and ultimately letting him bypass the usual ways of doing things because no one had ever bothered to take the time to teach him _those_ everyday sorts of skills people in a this land took for granted. And the ones he did have, skills like spinning wool and hunting his own food, had long since grown redundant.

(Neal happened to like that about this world.)

But executives with fancy suits and offices of their own didn't really find survival skills all that impressive for some reason. So he'd just have to find a way to adapt once more, learning how to survive in a different sort of world. One that involved applications and job interviews rather than cons and thievery. And, _maybe,_ this time around, with an added dose of patience and self-control. Easy enough. Emma and the baby provided a giant helping of motivation. Motivation he had mostly lacked when he only had to worry about himself.

(He wasn't exactly proud of it, but unfortunately giving up was all too easy when he only had himself to disappoint.)

Thankfully, the footprint they had created for him back in Tennessee helped, giving him a fake job history that would, at the very least, get him a foot in the door for an interview. And then, lucky for them, Neal absolutely excelled in a little something he liked to call advanced bullshitting.

And soon enough, after several ignored applications and a few interviews to which he had to wear a very itchy suit, he went from factory drone to office drone.

He wouldn't consider it the ideal solution, not by a long shot, but it was at least good enough for now.

"But it could be better," said Emma darkly, stalking off before he could even begin to fathom what the hell she actually meant.

x-x-x-x-x

Emma, of course, obviously meant her part in everything because what exactly did she have to contribute to the situation.

(Other than, maybe, an expanding midsection.)

"You have a job," said Neal, brow furrowed in the face of her declaration.

"Flipping hamburgers," she pointed out, starring a promising ad in the classified section.

"And I stare at computers all day," he said, "it's a job."

Emma merely huffed. He had missed the point.

And she couldn't exactly blame him.

No one would ever dare call Emma a particularly ambitious person. Up until about a year and a half ago she had, maybe, one goal in life. Survive the foster system and get out. Which she had. And then she just had to worry about getting by because dreaming remained a luxury when the day to day consisted of satisfying her basic survival needs.

Then she met Neal and suddenly she believed in dreams again.

It made _just_ getting by a problem.

(More specifically, she blamed her age and obvious lack of diploma.)

"We're idiots," she told Neal over dinner one night.

He snorted and gave a dry, "Thanks."

"I'm serious," she insisted, poking at overcooked pasta with her fork.

(Since moving, Emma had put forth a ... _decent_ effort to learn how to cook. The results, however, still fell on the okay to really fucking bad end of the spectrum.)

Neal regarded her for a few moments and then set his own fork down, giving her his full attention as he responded with a very careful, "Okay?"

She elaborated with (a somewhat dramatic), "We don't know anything."

He cocked his head. "That seems like a slight exaggeration."

"We can pick locks and hot wire cars," she listed, waving her fork around in the process, "oh, and maybe the how-to on knocking a guy out in a single punch."

"Seems useful," he said blandly.

"We thought Tallahassee was near a beach," added Emma as if this would prove her point.

"That map was very deceiving," murmured Neal sheepishly and then, quite serious, he added, "There are different kinds of intelligence, Em."

True. But how could they possibly build a life off those?

(And, more importantly, what sort of life could they build for their child?)

"You're the one that wanted to settle down," she said with just as much seriousness, "so maybe it's time we learn how to do _more_ than just survive."

x-x-x-x-x

Emma had upset Neal.

Not that he had said anything, exactly, and he was still, technically, talking to her. So she couldn't speak with any actual authority on the matter other than the fact that she knew how he usually acted. And usually he had that goofy sense of humor, that ridiculously hopeful outlook, and he always, _always_ , put forth a sincere, even winded effort to get her to crack a smile.

In the past week she hadn't even seen him smile once.

In fact, all in all, he just acted kinda broody.

Emma didn't like it.

So naturally, she tried her best to fix it.

First, thinking it was just a bad mood, she tried cheering him up with all his favorite foods. Including extra spicy Buffalo wings _and_ mac-and-cheese. None of which she had cooked. Which he ate, but it didn't really change anything.

(She didn't get it. Food almost _always_ made her feel better.)

So when she realized that hadn't worked and that, maybe, it was more than just your run-of-the-mill bad mood she bit her tongue and tried apologizing.

(Even though she didn't exactly think she had said anything wrong.) (Neal agreed.) (Really.) (He used those exact words.)

"Why?" he said, "You weren't wrong."

(See?)

But still, nothing changed. And then she realized, maybe, he had just misunderstood her.

"I don't think you're stupid," she whispered to him in bed a few days later and long after they had said goodnight. "That wasn't what I was trying to say."

(When it came to expressing herself Emma just sort of ... failed with words.)

And she really hadn't meant it that way either. Neal knew things. He knew lots of things. He was full of odd but interesting facts and all sorts of useful skills that he had expertly passed onto her. But, despite the fake history they had given him back in Tennessee, he didn't _actually_ have a diploma. The very same diploma she had never bothered with because, up until a few months ago, she had considered math and science and English irrelevant to surviving life. And while she didn't necessarily buy into the whole _education is the only way to get by_ spiel, she did want better for ... well, _you know._ So now she just worried that they didn't know the _right_ things. The sort of things a parent needed to know in order to raise (and even help educate) their child.

(If they kept it, of course.)

"Good," he murmured, "because I don't think I'm stupid either. Or you for that matter."

Things didn't change the next day though. Something she didn't understand at all because Emma _knew_ he hadn't been lying.

It forced her to conclude that this problem only existed because of one very simple fact. The fact that she had never actually gotten stuck on the losing side of their arguments before. Neal had gotten remarkably good at smoothing out the wrinkles that appeared in the wake of fights and disagreements while, at the same time, even expertly cheering her up. But other than soothing a few nightmares, Emma had never really had to do the same with him.

(He was _always_ happy.)

(And, okay, between the two of them, she was, maybe, _definitely,_ the more likely to hold a grudge.)

(Neal was very low maintenance. She liked that about him.)

But despite the fact that nightmare remained a very different thing from a fight, Emma decided that she should approach them the exact same way. Because eight months together. Emma had, maybe, learned a thing or two about Neal. Like the fact that he had a thing for physical contact. And, perhaps more specifically, he tended to crave _that_ human connection particularly after he bolted awake, shaking and unwilling to close his eyes because closing them meant returning to whatever images haunted his mind after sleep. Images he couldn't even bring himself to share with her.

They had shared their _second_ first kiss after a nightmare.

(Not that either of them counted. Neal didn't remember the second and the first had served as a distraction, Emma taking the initiative when they had nearly gotten caught someplace they never should have been.)

But contact. Neal liked it. Even before things in their relationship had changed, he'd sit right up next to her or walk close enough that their jackets brushed.

He _liked_ to hold hands.

And, up until his recent turn of mood, her side of the mattress was usually his side of the mattress too.

It grounded him, she thought. Touching. Contact. It reminded him about where he was. That he wasn't alone. He needed that. And while Emma had never really seen herself as the touchy-feely sort, preferring to save hugs or a pointed squeeze of the hand for those times when words just up and failed her, she had made the adjustment, coming around to Neal's more casual displays of affection.

Besides, Emma _liked_ that she could give him that, even if she had to work at the whole casual touching thing.

(It got easier.)

That made the solution obvious. In fact, it was perfectly simple.

Sex.

More specifically, considering he had avoided her attempt to join him that morning in the shower, a seduction of sorts.

Contact. Touch. Connection. Or, rather, reconnection. This would clearly accomplish all three.

But Emma had never really attempted a seduction before. Neal usually initiated things, for one, and when he didn't Emma had found that she didn't really need to put in all that much work to get the ball rolling. So she broached the topic with Gretchen from work, cornering her near the freezer because even if they weren't the best of friends, they still got along well enough. Well enough even that she knew Gretchen had had at least two serious relationships, officially adding up to more experience than Emma could claim to.

Plus, she was kind of desperate. Point proven when Gretchen got Emma to do the one thing (well, one of) she absolutely hated.

"We'll go shopping," said Gretchen enthusiastically, ignoring Mark when he squeezed past them to pull out more beef patties and, seemingly unconcerned about his presence (though clearly aware), continued, "but you should go down on him -"

He swore under his breath, looking flustered as he shut the freezer, walking away, the patties apparently forgotten.

Gretchen didn't even blink, the only sign that she had noticed the slight upward movement of her lips. "Guys are always in a better mood after that. I even got a watch out of a guy once."

( _That_ Emma knew.) (The mood thing.) ( _Not_ the part about possible bribery.)

Shopping involved Target and lingerie, Gretchen sending her back off to the dressing room after eyeing each outfit _thing_ critically.

"You _are_ very pregnant," noted Gretchen, managing to not make it sound like a code-word for fat as she fiddled with the straps. "Is this gonna be your way of breaking the big news?"

"He already knows," said Emma, who decided to go out on a limb and just say she didn't like lace. Not even a little. But she shook her head, and added. "No. He's _surprisingly_ okay with it."

She had wondered, briefly, if he had gotten fed up with her continuing lack of decision on that front but she couldn't wrap her head around that. Not when he seemed so genuine about supporting her no matter what.

"Huh," said Gretchen, obviously baffled. Whether it was due to Neal's okay-ness or her own inability to pull off sexy under things Emma couldn't exactly say.

But she got sent off to the dressing room with something red and, thankfully, a lot less lace. As she tried to navigate her way into it, she added, shouting out to Gretchen. "I think I bruised his ego, y'know. Insulted his intelligence or whatever."

(Which she still couldn't make sense of either, but it was the only conclusion she could reach given the lack of evidence.)

Gretchen tutted, any of her earlier surprise fading away as she muttered something about men. "That would do it. But," her features turned approving as Emma stepped out of the dressing room, "one look at you in that and he'll forget his own name. Nevermind what's pissed him off."

Emma smiled tightly, trying her best to look grateful and not completely out of her element while Gretchen aimed her phone at a scantily dressed mannequin.

"You saving up for something," she asked, nodding at the phone.

"Nah, sending it to Mark," she said and Emma rolled her eyes in amusement because _honestly._

And a few days later, when her fed up-ness with Neal's brooding officially outweighed her own supreme awkwardness, Emma donned the thing for Neal.

He, however, failed to respond as planned.

"You look _very_ nice, baby," he said, voice low and obviously tempted as he fingered one of the thin straps that wouldn't quite stay on her shoulders, "but I thought we were saving up. For," his eyes flickered toward her stomach, "you know."

Well, fuck.

She had gotten so caught up in worrying about this stupid thing with Neal that she had forgotten to worry about all the other things she _actually_ needed to worry about. And she absolutely could _not_ seduce Neal or whatever when she felt guilty.

So the problem continued to go unsolved.

Until finally, in typical Emma fashion (and maybe what she should have done in the first place), she just decided enough was enough and went ahead, confronting it head on, cornering him in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she said, bowling over his garbled protests. "Tell me what I need to do to fix this."

He spit into the sink.

"There's nothing to fix."

Then he went back to brushing his teeth.

(Idiot.)

Emma bit her lip. She wanted to scream, which made her think she best not push it just then.

But just a little while later, as she tried to decide if she wanted bacon or sausage with her eggs, Neal broached the subject himself.

(Well. Kind of.)

"If you want," he said, "after the baby is born we can pack up and go back to living out of the bug."

Emma blinked.

She knew, of course, that he wouldn't dare suggest that they raise a baby in the car. Neal would never do that, not after everything she'd so reluctantly dumped on him. So that must have meant that he had decided he _didn't_ want to keep it.

 _Oh._

She stood stiffly, keeping her eyes trained on the half-scrambled eggs as they simmered in the pan. Any thoughts of bacon or sausage had fallen away completely and suddenly she had this sinking feeling in her stomach, something that felt remarkably like the disappointed panic that had fallen over her that time he told her they wouldn't be able to go Tallahassee after all.

"Is that what you want?" she asked carefully, poking the eggs with the spatula half-heartedly.

He came up to stand at her shoulder. "I want you. I want you to be happy."

Emma blinked and gave him a confused look. "I am happy."

(She wasn't _unhappy._ )

"Are you?" he asked with furrowed brows. "Because I didn't mean to force you into settling down. I just thought it's what we both wanted."

 _Oh._

"It was," she quickly insisted then _shit._ " _Is._ It is what I want. I want to be with you."

And there she went, screwing things up all over again because one of those things was slightly different than the other. She tried one more time.

"Here's the thing," she said carefully, turning her attention _back_ to the frying pan. "I _like_ being able to choose between sausage _or_ bacon with my freshly cooked eggs in the morning."

Neal still didn't seem convinced, offering a slow, " _Okay_."

"It's just, maybe, one day I might like to have both, y'know? And not just on the weekends."

He seemed to get it now.

"You can have both, Em," he insisted, "whenever you want."

(Well. Maybe not.)

And if she couldn't already see him mentally trying to calculate what he could have instead she might have even appreciated the sentiment.

"Both of us, I mean. Without feeling guilty," she amended, almost as an afterthought because food wasn't really the issue here. Instead she turned fully and took his face in her hands. "Neal, babe, I just meant that I want to be happy. Both of us." She continued quickly before he could insist that he was. "And by happy I mean not lose who we are in silly things like jobs that we hate or by trying to be something we're not."

He brought up a hand to cover one of hers, squeezing. "We won't," he said. "This is just what we need to do right now."

She nodded because she understood that. _She did_. "But we can't forget."

People who forgot lost themselves and then woke up one day in the distant future, panicking, wondering where the hell their life went. That's why people got divorced … _broke up_ ... sometimes even abandoned their kids. Kinda, she assumed, like Neal's mom had done with him.

(And _that_ was the opposite of what she assumed Tallahassee should be.)

"Then we won't." He said it so simply, in that earnest way that made Emma want to believe in things the way that he did, that she couldn't help but kiss him and when he responded it was this desperate sort of thing, letting her know that he had found this … _whatever_ just as difficult as she had.

"Hey," he murmured as Emma found that sweet spot below his ear, his hands slipping under her shirt, "seeing as you couldn't return that little, uh, you _know_ , maybe we should put it to good use now."

Emma hummed an agreement as she let go of his ear lobe with an audible _pop._ "Make-up sex _is_ a special occasion."

Indeed.

When the smoke detector chimed in, reminding them that they had forgotten the eggs, which had turned an unfortunate brown, they turned off the stove, deciding to skip breakfast altogether.

And Neal stood by his word in that typically unexpected way of his, starting with moving the fliers and take-out menus from their place on the fridge to an unused drawer (of which they had plenty), clearing a space that Emma immediately took notice of when she went to order a pizza.

"To stick our goals," Neal had said, fiddling with one of the bear shaped magnets left by the previous tenants, "until we can."

Emma abandoned her frantic search, ignoring her sudden craving for pineapple as she gave him her full attention because finally, _officially_ , her Neal had returned, complete with the corniest thing he'd ever done for her. She absolutely loved it (like a lot). And that night she cut out a picture of a sunny Florida beach and stuck it smack dab in the middle of the fridge.

(The ocean was really only a couple of hours away, but there was always something - like work and exhaustion and, okay, pure laziness - that kept them from making the trip.) (But this, Emma thought, _this_ would hold them accountable.)

Neal grinned goofily as she stepped back, his arm pulling her flush against his side as they both admired the finished product. Someone, somewhere could probably dream of bigger and better things, but right then Emma couldn't think of a better start for two kids that had found themselves constantly denied the luxury of hopes and dreams for most, if not all, their lives.

* * *

Thanks for reading everyone and thanks to lilnudger82, Rainbow2.0, and maressaonce who took the time to leave such nice reviews - I can't begin to express how much I appreciate it!

Next Chapter: Athena's Ruling


	4. Athena's Ruling

**A/N:** Hello! I just wanted to give a head's up that this chapter does contain some adult content. Nothing overly explicit, I don't think, and it does represent the start of a sort of shift in Emma and Neal's relationship going forward which is why I didn't cut it completely. But I definitely understand that it's not everyone's cup of tea so I'll have an alternative version of the chapter up on my tumblr with that scene cut and I apologize for any inconvenience.

My tumblr is **pensandvinyl** and at the end of the link just add: **/tagged /c4b** \- sorry, the site won't let me add in a complete link, but that's my writing blog and I haven't posted anything else there so you shouldn't have too much trouble finding it.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Athena's Ruling**

It was a boy.

They found out at her second appointment, the doctor pointing out the appropriate parts as Emma removed her glasses to squint at the screen, trying to make sense of the blurry, baby-shape she saw there. His heartbeat, strong and fast and _alive_ , echoed in her ears like a line of horses galloping towards the finish line.

Neal, meanwhile, grinned like a loon until he seemed to remember that maybe he shouldn't.

(He would pull out the sonogram and just _stare_ at it when he thought no one was around to see. But she had _seen_ , taking quick note of the worn edges too, understanding that he did this almost habitually).

She tried to not let _that_ weigh on her. Neal's want. And her indecisiveness. But as much as he tried to hide it for her sake, it still shone through, clear as day. Everything he did, it seemed, was his silent show of _we can do this_ and _we can make this work._ He was _so_ very certain and she couldn't help but envy that, wishing she could hold onto that warm feeling that filled her when images of a little miniature something with Neal's smile and her eyes would pop up, haunting her dreams and invading her thoughts during slow hours at the restaurant. But as suddenly as those thoughts would appear, they would get squashed, Emma remembering the reality of their situation.

(Not to mention the reality of _her._ ) (Because what the hell did she know about family and parenting?)

But even then, with all those dark thoughts, it was getting harder. To think practically. _Realistically._ Especially now that she could no longer refer to him as an _it_ (Neal never did, she had noticed, always switching between he and she before the _he_ had become official). Because it ... _He_ was real. The baby. Not that the real-ness of it all hadn't made itself apparent before. _Just_... it had turned to he and he did things like move and kick and suddenly he was a little human and now that short leash of emotional distance that she had created was even shorter, making it impossible to think of _things_ in purely logical terms.

(A part of her really didn't want to anymore.)

Now that sinking, disappointed feeling filled her stomach whenever she forced herself to consider the idea that a couple with better jobs, a bigger home, and actual stability would take better care of their baby than she and Neal ever could. Especially if said couple happened to have grown up with parents themselves. Because then they would actually know shit about parenting and love and family.

(Emma kinda hated that couple - this picture of perfection that didn't actually exist outside of her imagination.)

But Emma knew more than she thought. All that worrying she had done in the last month or so proved - well, according to Neal, anyway - that she at least knew what _not_ to do.

"Not abandoning your kid is just common sense, Neal," she had told him dryly, emptying a grocery bag from her most recent trip to the store.

He shook his head.

"Obviously it's not," he replied, mindlessly putting boxes in cabinets. "Sometimes even the parents that stick around don't get it. Everyone likes to worry about the practical shit. And that's important, don't get me wrong, but then it overshadows the rest of it. People forget how important love and support and family is in the growing up process. We know though. We've seen the scars that get left behind when they're absent."

Emma _knew_ then, without a doubt, that as much as Neal wanted the baby and as disappointed as he would probably be if they didn't keep him, he wouldn't fault her if she _did_ decide to give him up because he understood, at least, that they both wanted the same thing for their child. They just had very different ideas on the best way to go about giving it to him.

( _That_ , in its own weird way, helped take the pressure off.)

But ever so slowly she began to realize the things she knew went beyond _just_ should-be common sense. Through trial, error, and a copious amount of time spent on the bathroom floor she had discovered that the baby absolutely despised apples. And while that happened to be her favorite fruit (now she couldn't even look at them) she had gotten over this because, thankfully, he _did_ share her love for Lucky Charms and Hot Chocolate topped with cinnamon.

(And thank _whatever_ because she desperately needed something to make up for the complete lack of caffeine and alcohol.)

Much to Neal's amusement (and her physical discomfort), the baby shared his taste in music. And while she didn't mind the folksy _whatever_ he usually listened to, her own taste tended to stray towards the edgier side of things. Like Whitesnake and Guns N' Roses. The baby, however, didn't seem to share her opinion, growing restless anytime she would switch stations, forcing Emma to excuse herself as she rushed to the bathroom.

(By the time she got back and settled in their lone orange recliner, Neal had always switched it back, a shit-eating grin on his face as if this, somehow, decided that he really did have the superior taste in music. Y'know, rather than merely providing further evidence to support the unfortunate fact that the baby saw her bladder as his own personal squeeze toy.)

He liked weird things too, causing Emma to develop cravings for foods that she and Neal didn't normally eat. Like pineapple on pizza and strawberry milk.

Mostly though, he just moved a lot, this tiny little thing somehow always making his presence known in some way or other with a light flutter or a harsh kick, keeping her up late and waking her up even earlier. Something she probably should have found annoying (and it _was_ kinda inconvenient when she had to run off to the bathroom practically every ten minutes), but really, it was just kind of amazing. He was really in there and she found it hard to believe, looking back on it now, that she could have gone so long without realizing it.

(And it was crazy, she knew that, but sometimes Neal talked or just let his hand drift over her stomach in that soothing way of his and she swore the baby calmed, his restlessness settling into, well, whatever babies did nestled away in there.)

All very small, _minuscule,_ practically microscopic things. Things that would probably translate to absolutely nothing once he made his way out. But _things_ just the same, meaning they added up to knowledge and facts that made her feel like she _knew_ her baby.

( _Things,_ Emma found, were not very good for distance.)

Then, one day, while she ate her lunch and the baby kicked (she liked to think in approval because who didn't like grilled cheese), Emma had a thought. Just a passing one. Fleeting, really.

(Well, until she took the exact scale of it into consideration anyway.)

But when she thought about how much more some other faceless family (her hand tightened around her glass of strawberry milk) could give to the baby compared to her and Neal, Emma also thought that no one could possibly love him as much as they would.

(Already did.)

Naturally, she forced herself to consider her own crappy childhood after that. Something she did whenever her mind strayed too far into that silly optimistic territory because that always put things into perspective.

Only this time it didn't.

Because here's the thing: She'd forgotten somewhere along the way, all that repression doing its job, but once upon a time, before she grew up and stopped believing in fairytales, Emma would sit up at night and do silly things like hope and wish on stars. On the really bad days, when she got called useless or a potential family passed her over, she would cry herself to sleep, and naively think that everything would turn out okay if her parents would just come back for her.

(That picture of _who_ would alternate.) (Those first few days, _months,_ YEARS back in the system she had desperately hoped for the Swans.) (And then, _eventually,_ she had tried to imagine what her birth family might be like.) (Y'know when she'd realized that they weren't, actually, one and the same.) (As if she could somehow forget that one had returned her like an unwanted present.) (And then finally, when she'd found that stupid newspaper article depicting her 'rescue' and understood that the other had simply dumped her on the side of the highway like used trash, she just stopped wishing altogether.)

But she hadn't cared about trivial things like where they would live or what kind of people her parents really were. She hadn't wanted toys or fancy clothes. She had _just_ wanted a family that loved and wanted her in turn.

And that's when Emma realized.

She wanted her son.

But, perhaps more importantly, wanting him, _loving him_... that would be enough.

The realization came with a bright, cloud-clearing smile and suddenly she felt lighter, the weight and guilt that had settled over her since realizing she was pregnant falling away as she let herself believe that this didn't have to be a bad thing and that yes, maybe, she _could_ do this.

Suddenly, she had to talk to Neal.

Now okay, she could have just come out with it and, in her defense, she very nearly did when he came home from work that day. Except he walked in, loosening his tie with more force than he usually did and immediately started complaining about how a co-worker had screwed up this very important thing Emma knew nothing about and then, even though he had nothing to do with it, Neal had gotten stuck with the clean-up, saddling him with all sorts of extra work.

She knew, of course, that her decision very likely would have done a quick job of cheering him up, but Emma didn't want a cloud hanging over this. Not when she had _just_ gotten rid of hers.

So the next day she put together a special dinner, made up of all his favorites. Or she had tried to anyway. But it burned and they wound up going out.

(And as much as she enjoyed eating greasy hamburgers and fries that didn't come from a drive thru, Emma definitely didn't want to tell him in the middle of a crowded restaurant.)

She didn't bother to think of something special for the third time. If she sat on this much longer she would only manage to talk herself out of it so, during breakfast the next day, she asked if Neal still had the sonogram.

(She knew he did, of course.)

"Yeah," said Neal, pulling out his ratty-old wallet. "What for?"

Silently, Emma took the sonogram and tried not to smile at the image staring back at her.

(She had seen it before, of course, but things had obviously changed between then and now.)

She would have preferred it if Neal turned away rather than fixing her with that intense stare of his, like he knew _exactly_ what thoughts she had running through her head, but she did her best to ignore her discomfort as she got up, sticking their baby's first picture right next next to the one of the beach on _Operation Hope._

(That's what Neal called the portion of their fridge dedicated to their goals and wishes and while the word _hope_ made Emma distinctly antsy, he stubbornly refused to call it anything else, insisting that goals meant shit if they didn't let themselves _believe_ they could actually happen).

" _Emma,"_ he said with nothing short of awe.

"He's ours," she told him pointedly before rushing to their bedroom so she could get dressed for work.

(She had no idea what possibly possessed her to make any sort of _thing_ out of it. Not when she was so obviously awkward.)

Neal, of course, couldn't just leave it at that and so appeared in the doorway not long after.

"We're keeping the baby?" She wouldn't call it a question, not really, but he had said the words with exactly enough tentativeness that it might as well have come out as one.

"Obviously," she said primly, trying to choose between two white shirts (one fit her better, but it also had a stain above the belly button). She might as well have rolled her eyes.

Neal did it on her behalf. "Obviously, she says."

Emma _tried_ to focus on the very difficult process of finding a shirt but Neal made quick work of distracting her, wrapping his arms around her from behind and landing a series of kisses along her neck.

"Neal," she said, trying to think past the very pleasant feeling of his lips at her pulse point, "I'm going to be late for work."

"Who cares," he murmured, nimble fingers brushing long blonde hair aside, lips following their path, lightly skirting across her neck, sending a tingling feeling all the way down to her toes. "We're having a baby."

She could _feel_ his grin.

"I don't think that counts as an excuse," she replied and, in spite of her obviously feeble protests, her head titled automatically, granting him better access, her lips inching upwards as her own excitement began to shine through. "We've been having a baby the entirety of my time there."

"Don't care."

Maybe Emma didn't either.

Especially not when he lifted her, sweeping Emma off her feet, spinning her round and round until they were both laughing with childish glee, Neal finally depositing her on the age-worn mattress currently passing for their bed, hovering above her, his giddy grin fading into something that threatened to maybe steal her breath away. He kissed her then, slow and steady, and for a moment she let herself get carried away by it.

They had yet to really grow out of the quick, often frenzied romps of their Portland days. Neal liked to slow things down, she supposed, but her own impatience meant that whenever he tried, Emma would always get fed up and wind up taking control one way or another. And yeah, Neal could probably take it back, no problem, but neither made any secret of the fact that they both liked it when she was on top.

This time, however, something changed.

They hadn't immediately torn at each other's clothes, for one, and if they really planned to have a quickie before she jetted off to work then he should have had her completely naked by now.

(Not that she hadn't _tried_ tugging at his shirt, but before she could even finish untucking it from his jeans, he had swatted at her hands, playfully kissing away the pout that inevitably followed.)

This did nothing to help distract her from the thoughts she desperately needed to shut off before she could turn herself over to his attentions completely. She'd catch up to his singular focus in a minute or two, but right then she couldn't help _but_ think about work and the fact that they would actually have to shop for the baby now and that inevitably led to thoughts about money that she needed to go to work to get.

(In Portland, she'd fret over things like the stupid holes in her bra and panties and the last time she'd showered properly. Less often, perhaps surprisingly, she'd get caught up in the questionable safety and privacy of their stolen hideaways.)

"Neal," she said and the sound came out more like a half-moan because he had chosen that exact moment to nip at the space between her collar bones. "I really wasn't kidding about being late."

"Emma," he said with pointed amusement, hands remaining true to their mission, pushing her shirt upwards as they tried to find a temporary home on her stomach, a pit stop on their way to something far more exciting.

"Stop thinking," she guessed, wriggling a bit in the attempt to get his hands higher and with, maybe, a firmer touch. He gave her a light brush of her ribs for effort, stopping just south of her more preferred destination as his lips brushed a soft, teasing path across her skin. But he often had to give her this reprimand during foreplay. Thankfully, he also knew better than to take it personally.

"It'd be nice," he agreed, and he, at least, became amiable enough to remove her shirt finally. When she tried to return the favor, however, he simply swatted at her hands for a second time.

"It might help if you take _your_ shirt off," she pointed out because it would.

"Would it?"

She nodded hopefully.

"Not yet," he murmured, his voice low against her skin. _Husky._ In that way he knew she liked. It practically vibrated and she felt it all the way down to her toes. And then his lips moved downward, neck, collar bone, and then he reached her breasts, a brush of his lips, his thumb tracing the underside and both obviously doing a fine job of ramping up the anticipation, and so it'd be nice if he'd just get on with things already.

(And oh, his teeth and her nipple. Excellent maneuver, Neal. Attention officially diverted.)

She couldn't help but arc into him, body molding itself against his, legs wrapping around his waist, holding him tight against her while she settled for digging her hands into his hair. A compromise seeing as she'd had the warmth of his skin denied to her twice now.

She mussed his hair quite thoroughly, fingers weaving through soft curls, scraping against his scalp, causing him to draw a sharp breath inward as he nipped and licked, first her breasts, and then a trail of fire down her stomach, leaving her flushed and panting and _wanting_. She helped eagerly as he pulled at her pants, lifting her hips so he could tug them off and when she tried, once more, to return the favor he gave her a quick tisk of the tongue.

(She liked the attention, but she'd like it better if he joined her in all the naked-ness.)

He kissed his way between her thighs then. This long, drawn-out process of soft but whiskery kisses and rough, calloused hands tracing gentle patterns, Neal doing a fine job of torturing her, getting distracted by her legs along the way as he was wont to do.

("Well, they're very nice legs," he had told her when she had called him out on this some time ago, accusing him of teasing her.)

He found his way eventually though and soon enough, with her fists tight around the comforter bunched beneath them, her hips bucked with nothing short of abandon in their desperate attempt for more, deeper and quicker _please_ because _fuck_ and _oh, God._ It didn't take her very long at all to come undone, relaxing limply back onto their mattress after riding a wave of pure pleasure.

(It had taken Emma _forever_ to get used to the idea of Neal and his mouth _there._ And despite his insistence that he wanted to and _whatever_ , Emma hadn't even considered the possibility until Tallahassee, when they finally had a regular access to a shower.)

(She definitely liked it _now_ though.)

She desperately wanted _more,_ something fueled _by the_ obvious feel of his desire against her leg and so, after luring Neal into a false sense of control by giving into a thoroughly languid kiss, tongue exploring his mouth where she could taste nothing but him and her, she made quick, frantic work of his clothes.

"Off," she insisted against his lips, tugging his stupid shirt upwards, her fingers brushing against the ragged x-shaped scar above his heart.

"Eager are we?" he teased, but considering how quick his pants followed the shirt, he had officially matched her impatience.

Naturally she told him to shut up, an order made less harsh by the fact that he was inside her then and how could she help _but_ moan in response.

(His responding chuckle, deep and sensual, also, maybe, made her toes curl.)

He didn't let her set the pace she obviously needed, keeping them at a steady sway that seemed entirely uncharacteristic of them and resulting in the exact sort of slow-method torture that she both loved and hated.

(Emma had a few tricks and well-timed _squeezes_ of her own though which, considering Neal's responding groan, helped even the playing field.)

But even without the fast and furious-ness of it all, it still _felt_ intense, Emma beginning to realize the emotional undercurrent accompanying Neal's touch as she met his gaze, fierce and full of something that, even just a few months ago, she would have broken by ramping up the pace, still not quite able or willing to put thoughts to feelings, let alone touch or words.

Now though the things she saw staring back at her weren't so scary and she held his stare as she brought her knees up, legs wrapping around his waist once more, bringing him closer and letting him in deeper in a way that almost immediately pushed Neal over the edge. He breathed in heavily to get his bearings, hot air landing on Emma's shoulder and she merely turned her head just so, kissing him deeply, fingers digging in, pressing down tightly on the muscles of his back, his skin hot beneath her hands. Bringing him as close as possible because, as surely as he silently thanked her and loved her with his touch, she tried to convey her readiness and willingness to do _this_ with him. To have their son and raise him and love him. _Together._

He breathed her name and the sound of it was so much like a prayer on his lips that she couldn't help but smile against his mouth, a blush that had nothing to do with lust or pleasure staining her cheeks. Because sometimes he would just look at her like he was now or say something like _that_ and she actually felt _special_. Like she meant something.

They never got to fast and frantic like Emma had originally hoped, but the pace picked up, Neal's hand moving between her thighs to help her along, the extra stimulation causing her to dig her fingers in deeper, in a way that would surely leave a mark, while her hips moved, matching him thrust for thrust with a growing desperation because _fuck_ , she was so close. Their labored breathing mingled together, mixing with the sounds of skin on skin until first Emma, with just about everything tingling in the most delicious way, fell over the edge and then, after a few more desperate but erratic movements from him (and words of encouragement from her), Neal followed.

They stayed like that, joined and Emma cocooned beneath him, for a little while longer, both attempting to catch their breath. Neal pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder while Emma ran steady fingers through his hair, both utterly sated. Even Emma's earlier rush had fallen away.

Neal, she had also learned over the course of their time together, liked to cuddle.

(In a manly sort of way, of course.)

Emma didn't _dislike_ cuddling by any means, she just didn't immediately seek out the contact in the way Neal seemed to as soon as he caught his breath. In truth though she had always preferred touch over words, finding that a direct punch to the gut or a gentle squeeze of her hands did a much better job of getting her point across when compared to her obviously awkward attempts to actually put words to her stupid-ass emotions.

(Or her flat-out avoidance of certain issues.)

But Neal? He acted like a starving man, hanging between life and death, her touch his only means of survival.

(Sometimes she wondered who had it worse. Her, who had never really known love before him? Or Neal, who had experienced the strength of family, only to get viciously burned by it?)

Today, however, rather than immediately pull her into his arms, he had flipped onto his stomach, head level with her own expanding belly, running gentle fingers across her skin as he talked to the baby.

(He had done this before but in a careful sort of way, never letting himself get caught up in it, remaining playful and teasing, until now, when he turned every bit the loving and doting father-to-be. He even, maybe, seemed a bit awe-struck.)

"I'm your daddy," he whispered in such a way that the smile permanently occupying her lips couldn't help but widen as she played with his hair. "And I promise you that we are going to love you more than anything else in this entire world."

She shouldn't have worried, she decided, the reason why bursting out of her, seemingly of its own accord, "You're gonna make a great dad."

He pressed a fervent kiss against her stomach, a smile spreading across his face, "What made you change your mind?"

"Well," said Emma, "I never thought you wouldn't."

She had always gotten stuck on her own potentially pathetic parenting skills that she never really took the time to consider Neal's.

(Because he got people, never ever doubted what he wanted, and was, kinda, like a giant kid himself.)

"No," said Neal, curling back into her side, fingers tracing still sensitive skin, "I mean, what made you decide? About keeping him?"

She pushed down the sudden urge for a snack (pizza sounded absolutely divine), shifting a bit, her shoulders forming a distinct shrug despite her position.

"I dunno," she murmured, doing her best to ignore Neal's suddenly intense gaze. "I guess I just finally understood what you meant. You know, about giving him the important things and how that would be enough. Because that's all I wanted as a kid too."

A storm passed over his face, dark and cloudy and, before it cleared, Emma knew that he understood.

"He'll have it all," he told her fiercely, the words something he burned into her skin, over and over again, hidden behind the promise of his kiss. "Home, family, _love._ He'll have it all, Emma, I promise."

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 **A/N:** Thanks for reading and thanks to everyone that took the time to favorite/follow as well **Rainbow2.0, steelneena, lilnudger82,** and **maressaonce** for leaving such kind reviews on the last chapter.

 **Next chapter:** A Helping Hand


	5. A Helping Hand

**Chapter Five: A Helping Hand**

Emma wound up calling in sick to work and Neal didn't have to go in at all on Saturdays so eventually, after round two, a nap, and a leisurely lunch, they decided to go shopping. Well, browsing really. To get an idea of what they might like in their limited price range. But Neal chomped at the bit, eager to make up for lost time while Emma had already started making long mental lists of all the things they would need now. Things like a crib and a changing table and a car seat. They'd need a stroller obviously and she'd always seen those little swings, all propped up close to the ground. Babies seemed to like those and so maybe their son might like one too.

( _Their_ son. She really liked the sound of that.)

But they'd have to get diapers and wipes and baby clothes too. _Bottles_ , of course, even if she might like to try breast feeding. He should have toys and a little baby blanket and _fuck._ It was never ending, wasn't it? And she kept thinking of more and more – a trying task when she continued to add in her feeble attempts to also calculate the exact costs to go with it.

(It would all cost the same in the end, but maybe, if they bought a little bit at a time the dent to their budget wouldn't be quite so overwhelming and obvious.)

And, considering they only had a one-bedroom apartment, space was gonna become an issue pretty quick too. But at least now, when she looked at the patio furniture in their kitchen, the lone orange recliner in their living room, the refrigerator that made odd clunking noises, and the used television that still required antennas and aluminum foil to upgrade a snowy screen to a blurry picture, Emma didn't let the doubt creep in. Someday they would have the money to replace their crappy things, but right now they still had plenty to take care of their basic necessities.

Still. That giant list of things was gonna make for a tight squeeze.

"It's not like we're strangers to tight spaces, Em," Neal said when she had pointed out the complete lack of room, "and the baby isn't gonna be worried about having his own room for a while yet."

Emma couldn't quite bring herself around to match his certainty. Something Neal obviously sensed because he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple and added, "We'll get through it, baby. Everything will work out. It always does."

(And she supposed that, yeah, things had gone pretty smoothly in the wake of their mad rush to escape Portland.)

They didn't go to the mall. Not with its stores catered specifically to babies and expectant mothers. Places guaranteed to have prices that would break their fragile budget. Instead, Neal took the extra time, browsing notices pinned up at the grocery store (a pit stop after she announced her sudden craving for salt and vinegar potato chips dipped in horseradish), finding a garage sale in the middle of some suburban neighborhood a few miles outside the city. Emma protested at first, worried about germs and safety issues and something about lead paint because she had read an article that told her she should be. But Neal _liked_ the idea of an item that had history and character and so, naturally, promised Emma that everything they bought would get a thorough cleaning before the baby even touched it.

(Plus, Neal was _really_ good at haggling, able to talk anyone into anything, and this tactic worked much better on people trying to get rid of old crap taking up necessary space in their garage.)

Emma, however, absolutely hated shopping. In any form. It reminded her, for one, how little they could actually afford. And while she liked the fast pace of a crowd moving along at a brisk pace in the city, this seemed to get lost everywhere else, people forgetting how to walk with any efficiency, blocking potential progress with their talking and their mingling and their odd sort of shuffling. Plus, it forced interaction, crowding Emma into making a decision before she was ready just to get pushy sales people off her back.

This only got worse now that Emma was pregnant.

Like they had found out in Portland though, pregnancy _did_ have its advantages; no one ever suspected the mother-to-be and, if she showed even just a hint of need, vendors and customers alike scrambled to help her, providing words of wisdom, giving them leads on where else they could, maybe, find used but cared for baby items. Unfortunately, people did this while fawning over her and, more specifically, her protruding stomach, asking her all sorts of stupid questions that she definitely had no interest in answering because hell, they didn't know her and she definitely didn't know them.

(At least she had _some_ answers now though because talk about awkward when she hadn't even decided what, exactly, she wanted to do with the baby.)

Take this gray-haired woman, for instance, with a voice like sandpaper who had just finished telling her about the cutest store back in Alabama that hand-knitted _everything_ for that real home-grown touch. Completely unprompted and it didn't really help Emma at all, y'know, seeing as they lived in Florida. But the woman seemed to miss Emma's discomfort and poorly disguised annoyance, instead squeezing her shoulder and asking, tone syrupy sweet, "Did you bring your husband with you? I could give him the directions."

Emma hated that. This assumption that she _needed_ to be married in order to have a baby and be successful at that. Maybe because she just hated assumptions. Or possibly because family-like matters and the question of her own abilities had turned into a sore subject as her pregnancy progressed and so the woman's comment, while probably innocent and well-intentioned, managed to strike a nerve. Regardless, it resulted in Emma reaching a breaking point, ready to snap.

(A perilous position that they could have avoided if Neal hadn't left her alone to do … well, whatever he had gone off to do.)

( _Seriously._ Where the hell did he go?)

Before she could make a scene, however, becoming the pregnant girl that yelled at sweet old ladies, rescue found her in the form of a dark-haired, heavily tanned woman clutching the hand of a little girl with a toothy grin.

"Delilah, hello sugar," she said brightly and with a heavy southern drawl, throwing an arm around her in a convincing enough way that Emma, no stranger to the fine art of conning herself, nearly questioned if the stranger had actually mistaken her for someone named Delilah. "It's been forever, hasn't it? And then imagine running into you at a yard sale way out in the middle of the sticks of all places. Pregnant to boot. We _must_ catch up." Emma found herself led away with a deft hand as her rescuer rambled on about a sorority and pineapples and someone named Barry.

"You're welcome," she said pointedly, dropping the act as soon as they had left the woman's earshot (whose presence this stranger had pointedly ignored). The southern accent had shifted too, becoming something far less obnoxious as she stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

Oh, Emma liked her.

"Joy," she said, before nodding at the little girl that had removed herself from her mother's side, probably at the first sign of her distraction, wandering to a nearby table, looking at the contents completely awestruck. "And that's Maya."

Emma smiled. Or tried to, but it was this tight sort of thing that probably gave away her discomfort around small children and just people in general. But she gave her name too and added a sincere, "Thanks."

Joy waved it off, "No problem. We've got to look out for our own, after all."

Emma nearly missed what she had meant before she remembered the cause of the problem to begin with. And oh right … _mothers._ Did that make her a part of a group now? Maybe even upgrading her from the last category she'd been lumped into: Orphan.

Maya returned to her mother's side, handing her something all wide-eyed and hopeful before turning her attention to Emma, looking up at her curiously. "Do ya know what you're having?"

"A boy," said Emma, smiling slightly when the little girl scrunched her nose in distaste. Suddenly she found the questions far less intrusive.

"Are you shopping for him or pleasure?" Joy asked, almost absently as she returned the thing (a snow globe, Emma realized) Maya had presented to her back to one of the tables.

"Him. We kinda just started," admitted Emma, half-distracted by Maya's quiet pleas, which Joy expertly waved off, forcing her daughter to settle for staring at the snow globe longingly.

"Well," started Joy, "if you're looking for baby stuff on the cheap, I've got some of Maya's old things that I've been looking to unload. Crib, changing table. Y'know the basics. And while I can't promise hand-knitted bibs and diapers," here Joy rolled her eyes, "it does have a certain special touch."

Emma found herself taken aback by the offer because by basics she really meant _the basics_ , but she could hardly say no when it could, potentially, save her the hassle of getting dragged to one of these things every weekend.

"Really?" A nod. "Yeah, we'd love to take a look."

They talked some more, hammering out all of the details as they browsed, moving from table to table, Joy having to pause from their attempts to put a name and a story to some of the more obscure items to scold Maya when she came too close to mishandling the goods, Emma flinching whenever something began to teeter, coming dangerously close to falling to the ground.

"Welcome to your future," noted Joy dryly as she deftly rescued one such item, Emma observing that she didn't look annoyed. Not in a ' _I can't believe I'm stuck with this'_ way that she remembered having graced the faces of most of her foster parents on a near daily basis.

It was nice, really, to find one of the good ones.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Neal had found a set of used paints and brushes which, admittedly, wasn't the most useful thing to buy, but he had wanted to give the baby something that'd be his. And Neal, while definitely not the best artist in the world, _could_ draw well enough and so, even if they didn't have the most spacious apartment in the world, he figured that maybe he could give his son something nice to look at, crafted with love and care.

"John," said Emma, sparing an unhappy look at a bag in his hand as she managed to not stumble over the use of his new fake name (something she'd been training herself to perfect after fumbling through a piss-poor introduction with one of her coworkers – Grace, was it? No, _Gretchen_ ).

"This is Joy and her daughter, Maya." He smiled, offering a bright greeting and a wave to the little girl as Emma continued, "Joy mentioned that she might be able to help us out with some baby stuff."

"Really? That'd be great," he expressed, sounding pleased. Though not as pleased as he had felt when he had returned to Emma's side and found her conversing with the pair, no sign of the scowl she typically wore in the presence of new company (it took her a while to warm up to people was all, a byproduct of circumstances that taught her to not give her trust to people automatically). But Joy seemed sensible enough. She had a happy daughter. And maybe this would save them from buying the white crib on wheels that Emma, when out of earshot of the well-meaning owners, had deemed both an ugly piece of shit and a fucking deathtrap.

(They would have to work on their language.)

They made plans for the following weekend, where they followed directions to a Military Base, a fact that caused them to nearly turn around upon discovery. Joy had made the necessary arrangements prior though and Emma and Neal got waved through easily enough. Maya greeted them with an enthusiastic wave, jumping up and down in the way only a five-year-old could when they pulled into the driveway set in a row of near identical houses.

"Mommy! Emma and John are here!" she shouted, rushing in their direction, Emma wincing because Neal was still in the process of parking.

"They have no sense of personal safety," she hissed to Neal as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Our kid probably won't even make it to five."

"Happy face," Neal countered because it probably wouldn't do if Joy somehow overheard Emma making indirect jabs at her parenting. Neal himself smiled brightly, reaching through the open window to give Maya's hair a playful jostle, causing her to shriek with laughter, dodging out of his reach, and letting Neal clamber out of the car before giving a playful chase.

Emma hung back, her usual discomfort around new people and her admitted dislike of small children (though Neal still suspected that she had exaggerated to get her point across) giving her a slight air of awkwardness as Neal listened with great interest to one of Maya's stories about a trip to the park she and her mother often frequented and then complimenting the chalk drawings that lined the driveway, asking her opinion on what sort of picture he should paint above the baby's eventual crib.

Joy joined them outside just as Maya started explaining to him about Dora the Explorer, the familiarity of a fellow adult prompting Emma to lose some of that trademark stiff-ness as they said their hellos. She even made a wry comment to Joy about his child-like behavior that he supposed he should have taken offense to.

(He didn't.)

"It's in the garage," Joy announced, after they made the appropriate amount of small talk, Maya skipping ahead to lead them in the right direction.

When the door opened and they stepped inside it didn't take Neal very long at all to let out a low, awe-filled whistle. He hadn't known what to expect, exactly, but a matching set of hand-crafted mahogany baby furniture hadn't even made the list. Crib, changing table, rocking chair, and even a matching chest were all-included.

"My husband made it," she explained as Emma ran a hand gently across the polished wood of the changing table, an impressed look on her face.

"It's all beautiful, Joy, truly," said Emma. "But we couldn't possibly. Wouldn't you want to keep something like this?"

Joy shook her head. "Maya's obviously outgrown it and Tom … well, we'll be moving across town soon and our new place just doesn't have the room."

Emma smiled sadly at the words left unspoken. "I'm sorry."

Joy shrugged as if to say what can you do, and he saw it then, the sadness in her eyes that could only come with loss. "You'd be doing me a favor, really, taking it off my hands. Even if I have another someday I wouldn't be able to bring myself to use it again and Tom would have wanted it to all go to someone who'd put it to good use."

Neal stepped forward, abandoning his examination of the intricate design that coated the chest. "If you're sure," he said carefully, almost afraid to look _too_ eager, "we can give you a fair price for it, at least. Maybe not all upfront, but …"

But Joy shook her head again, halting him with a hand. "Tom wouldn't have heard of it."

"Joy-" Emma protested. She despised charity. Even Neal hated to take advantage of a grieving mother's kindness. Not even if she insisted.

"If you don't take it," said Joy, "it'll just wind up on the curb."

Waste. The only thing, Neal knew, that Emma hated more than charity. And that evening, after loading Joy's truck and carrying everything up three flights of stairs, they both fell into bed, laughing with unsuppressed glee at their sudden bout of luck.

They spent the next day rearranging their apartment. And while they had anticipated the concern about space correctly, they couldn't bring themselves to care, not giving a damn that the baby would have better furniture than them or that both their bedroom and living room had turned into two separate halves of a nursery.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Emma spent a week fretting over how she might return the favor to Joy. Neal suggested that they simply invite her over for dinner, but that hardly seemed like enough to Emma.

"She gave us her dead husband's hand-carved baby furniture, Neal," she said, "we can't feed her hamburgers and potato salad."

(And, okay, maybe she worried about Joy getting a close look at their tiny apartment and the pathetic furniture that occupied it and feeling even more pity toward them than she probably already did.)

So they decided to invite her and Maya _out_ for dinner instead, finding a restaurant suitable to everyone's different taste buds, but only after Emma insisted on gifting them with a thank-you card, flowers for Joy, and a Dora the Explorer doll for Maya.

(Neal, of course, just _had_ to point out to her, long after they got home, that Maya had ordered the cheeseburger while Joy got a side of potato salad to go with her barbeque chicken.)

They spent the dinner talking about nonsense, Neal crafting a seasoned lie about how they met while Emma slowly warmed up to their youngest companion, listening to Maya as she excitedly told her about the upcoming school year and meeting her new teacher.

After, Neal treated everyone to ice cream and talked Joy into letting him take Maya on the bumper boats, the mother likely regretting the decision later when they clambered out of the shared contraption both laughing and soaking wet.

"Well, then. Seeing as we're all squared away," said Joy practically as she and Emma watched the childish display, "I hope that means I can actually invite you to lunch without any strings attached."

Emma laughed and nodded, a bright smile taking over her features.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Emma surprisingly enough, maybe, liked Joy. She was straight-forward and practical, but without the prickly thorns that accompanied Emma's own unfortunate bluntness. Instead Joy was warm and approachable and didn't get annoyed when Emma asked question after question about pregnancy and raising babies. She was like a diamond in the rough, a rare gem of a person whose friendship and kindness came with no strings or expectations. She had yet to see even a trace of judgment regarding Emma's age or her and Neal's financial situation.

And yeah, she kind of had Gretchen and Mark, Emma supposed, and while she liked them, even going so far as to call them friends, they were the sort of people you wanted around if you needed someone to bury the body. Which was good. Great, even. Joy, however, was the type of person that would keep you out of the situations that led to dead bodies to begin with. And no, Emma didn't get into that sort of trouble, _exactly,_ but she still needed that. Wanted it even.

But Joy had basically taken her under her wing, showing Emma friendship and her years of wisdom (she had seven on Emma). Y'know, without making her feel like an idiot when she didn't know something. So when Emma's traitorous mind assaulted her with all sorts of new worries and negative thoughts in the ridiculously warm weeks leading up to October, she purposefully sought out Joy, letting her make cocoa and sitting down in her half-packed living room with worried tear tracks marring her cheeks.

All of her fears, of course, came down to one thing: "I'm going to be a horrible mother."

When Joy responded with an amused laugh, Emma felt ridiculous and decided maybe she'd better leave.

"Sit down," said Joy, unimpressed. "You came in like the world's ending. Every new mother in the world has felt the exact same thing you are. Have you talked to John about this?"

How could she? He loved kids, had embraced fatherhood on day one, and had apparently already known that newborns couldn't sleep on their stomach.

Joy gave a knowing tut as she secured a box with tape.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Emma," said Joy. "It's going to be hard. They'll be times when you'll want to rip your hair out. And it only gets worse as they get older."

Emma furrowed her brow. "Really. Because Maya –"

"Is a delight," agreed Joy pleasantly, "except when things don't go her way." As an afterthought, she added, "Naturally, I love her more than anything. And you'll feel the same about your child. Parenting is a job where you learn as you go. And when you screw up, you'll also do anything to fix it. It's that simple."

(Emma could think of a few examples contradicting that supposedly simple notion. And therein lied the problem.)

It always came back to the same thing, of course. Her sucky, sorry excuse of a childhood. And as much as she had tried to leave it behind, both now and when she had hopped a bus to cross the country, it still hung over her head like a black cloud, telling her that no one wanted her, plaguing her with examples of the lowest scum of humanity, reminding her that she and Neal hadn't been any better before they had settled into Tallahassee.

(How could they teach their son things like following the rules and common decency if they had spent years unwilling to do the same themselves?)

"How did you deal? When your parents kicked you out?" Emma asked hesitantly, apology and a new subject ready and waiting, knowing that she might have stumbled on dangerous territory, even if Joy had made no secret of the fact that she didn't speak with the family that had basically disowned her when she failed to follow _their_ plans to deal with what they had called _her predicament_.

Joy, however, didn't even blink.

"What any kid would do, I suppose. Cried, fell into a pit of self-pity and loathing. Because obviously it was me, right? My fault. Not theirs." Joy shrugged. "Then I decided, screw them. If they wanted to kick me to the curb for one mistake then I'd make my own family. Besides, it happens sooner or later, doesn't it?"

It did, she supposed, and Emma tucked the nugget away for further consideration as the conversation shifted, leading to something less taxing, Emma joining Joy, helping her to wrap various picture frames and memorabilia in bubble wrap until Joy had to go pick up Maya from school, Emma thanking her again on the way out, admitting that talking about it _had_ helped and that she would even think about bringing it up with _John_.

Joy, however, had given Emma something else to think about too. Because Joy had moved on by letting go of the past. And, before moving to Tallahassee, Emma and Neal had agreed to do the same, making a similar vow to the one Joy had made with Tom. They had promised to be a family. _Together._ Emma wanted that, still, more than anything. But maybe she needed to let go too.

Maybe she needed to, _finally_ , stop looking.

She had a small box containing all the remnants of her childhood hidden deep in the back of their closet. She didn't have much. A few trinkets and some photographs (some from later, most from her time with the Swans), a couple newspaper articles, and a hand-crafted baby blanket.

She looked through it one last time, fingers tracing the purple hand-knitted letters of her name before she stuffed it back into the box.

Honestly, Emma had always sort of considered the thing a walking contradiction, something that would keep her up at night as a kid, wondering how someone could put such effort and care into a hand-woven blanket only to turn around and dump the child they had made it for out, just like someone would with yesterday's trash.

She used to think that the blanket had to mean something. Some hidden clue to a past that just needed solving.

(Maybe a hint that her family would come back for her.)

But Emma was a mother now. She had doubts and fears, worries that stemmed from a place of love and anticipation and protectiveness for her son. And yeah, sometimes a parent couldn't keep their child. But there was a difference, she thought, between taking measures and finding someone who _could_ care for their kid and what her parents had so callously done to her.

She couldn't forgive it. And she absolutely had to stop wasting time and energy on searching for people that clearly didn't want to be found. She had her family now - a person who loved her and a baby that would soon need her full, undivided attention.

Emma would do better.

She started by letting go, dumping the shoebox, blanket and all, in the trash.

Time to start over.

* * *

Thanks for reading everyone! And thank you to **steelneena** and **maressaonce** for taking the time to leave such nice reviews!

 **Next Chapter:** Baelfire and Swan


	6. Baelfire and Swan

**Chapter Six: Baelfire and Swan**

Another month passed. Emma's much dreaded birthday drew closer while her stomach expanded, causing her to slowly grow more and more uncomfortable as the days wore on, the lingering heat of the Southern summer meaning that she had a difficult time finding any long term relief. It got so bad that Emma would dutifully watch the news and hope that the weatherman finally announced rain.

(And he did. It came in the form of Hurricane Omar.)

Neal wanted to heed the evacuation warnings but Emma scoffed. "Have you ever been in a nor'easter?" she countered, sprawled out in their recliner, eyes closed and a cool washcloth strategically placed on her forehead. "A little rain and wind is nothing."

Mostly though, Emma had no interest in sitting in the bug for an extended period of time. Not when it didn't have any air conditioning.

Neal, meanwhile, had started work on a mural that would play as a backdrop to the baby's crib. Something that, right now, only contained the bare bones of a vibrant sun.

"Sans name," he would mutter somewhat pointedly in her direction as if it was _her_ fault they hadn't settled on something yet. But nothing fit and each attempt to find something would start civilly enough before quickly dovetailing into a heated debate.

Neal though, Emma had discovered, could actually draw.

"That's," she started, eyes trained on the proposed sketch, words ultimately failing her as she realized that Neal had done that.

Neal shifted, pink marring his cheeks, "I can come up with something else."

"No," she said immediately, "it's good. Perfect, actually. I want that. For the baby. Everything except the name."

He had spelled out Jack with the clouds and while she liked the creativity of it, she couldn't stand the thought of anything too _common._ Not for their son.

They had made zero progress on this front. Not even finding something for the maybe pile.

It made Neal decidedly antsy.

"He shouldn't have to keep hearing us call him all these generic things," he would say and while Emma didn't quite agree that their son cared one way or another, not right now, she did find Neal's attitude about the whole thing wonderfully endearing.

But then, the day before Omar was set to hit land, Joy and Maya knocked on the door.

"We're going to Adventureland," Maya announced as she bounced excitedly in their doorway.

Emma raised an eyebrow, "It's Florida, wouldn't you rather –"

Joy shook her head, immediately cutting Emma off. "Maya _loves_ Adventureland," she said before adding significantly, "And it's in _Alabama_."

Neal perked up. "Oh."

"Wanna come?" Joy continued, Maya nodding enthusiastically next to her.

Emma snorted. "I don't even wanna get out of this chair."

"Not even if I can promise air conditioning?"

 _Oh._ Excellent work Joy Sinclair.

Names and murals would have to wait.

x-x-x-x-x-x

The threat of Omar passed, one of those instances where the hurricane shifted course at the last minute, and they returned to Tallahassee, Emma missing out on the rain she had so desperately been hoping for.

And the following week they helped Joy move. Well, Neal did most of the heavy lifting while Emma, pregnant as she was, got put on Maya duty, keeping her occupied and out of the path of the busy adults moving boxes.

And between everything Emma and Neal continued to argue over names.

They both agreed that they wanted to name him something meaningful to make up for the complete lack of personal attachment they had to their own last names. Unfortunately, neither could really agree on what meaningful actually meant. Once more, Neal offered John, George, or Michael. The closest thing to a proper family he'd had in this world, and a part of him wanted to honor them, but Emma kept insisting that she didn't want anything too old-fashioned or common.

She also had exactly zero people she wanted to name the baby after and when Neal gave her a sympathetic squeeze of the hand, she pointedly added, "Besides, it should mean something to both of us."

Nice thought, he supposed, but they didn't exactly have that many people in common and those that they did, like Joy and Maya, didn't go back far enough to warrant any sort of legacy.

So they would have to get a bit more creative.

"Jack," he suggested, offering the name of his favorite author.

Emma shook her head, signaling a veto and offering a pointed reminder. "You already tried that one, remember?"

The search did wind up raising a long-standing question, though, and Neal supposed it'd been silly of him to think he could avoid the conversation forever.

"What's your name?" Emma asked, shutting off the tv all of the sudden, leaning her chin on the armrest of their orange recliner so she could look down at him. She had asked him before, of course, but she had never bothered to try and press it either.

"Neal," he said purposefully, standing, because he didn't see the point in sitting on the floor if they had nothing to watch. And, suddenly, he had a craving for chips. "Or John now, I suppose."

Emma immediately followed him into the kitchen, remaining unimpressed. "Your _real_ name?" A beat and a blank stare. "Maybe we could name him after you."

"You're not gonna wanna name him after me." Neal definitely didn't want the kid carrying around a constant reminder of the life he'd spent so long trying to forget. It would welcome a whole lot of trouble, for one, and he wasn't that person anymore for another.

"I might," she insisted, arms crossed as she leaned back against the fridge. "Besides, it's a part of you. I should know."

He really shouldn't. It would just lead to more questions. If not today, then someday. But the very idea that she wanted to know more about him, even the bits he considered irrelevant, warmed his heart and softened his resolve.

He took a deep breath and then, in nothing more than a whisper, said, "Baelfire."

His hands shook, a moment of irrational panic setting in, as if his name had somehow turned into a calling card for all the evil in the world. Emma regarded him carefully for a moment. Probably, he imagined, to see if he had just tried to pull a fast one on her. Finally, she pressed her lips together in a poor attempt to suppress a smile while her hand found his, squeezing, letting him silently cling to her, not asking the question that lurked in her eyes.

And just like that the threat passed.

"Go ahead," he said, giving her permission to laugh.

But Emma shook her head. "Baelfire," she tried before insisting, "I like it."

"But not enough for our son?"

"No," she agreed. She leaned over to kiss him and against his lips, she said, "He'd never hear the end of it."

Thank the Gods.

He realized then though that it'd been stupid of him, really, to offer up borrowed names. Not that he wanted something one hundred percent unique (like Emma had said – the poor kid would never hear the end of it), but it should still have legs, y'know, something that could stand on its own.

Neal had kept going back to the Darlings because, at the end of the day, they remained the best example of a family that he had to lean on. They had been good, moral people. But even if that legacy would go unrecognized (he couldn't actually share the truth of where the suggestions came from), any name from that period of his life would still carry a burden and expectation that their son shouldn't have to bear. Unintentional or not. He should have a clean slate, something that he could make his own, and something that would make up for the fact that Neal couldn't even give his son his last name.

Or buy a present for his mother on her birthday.

He had managed, hopefully, to come up with a nice (and free) alternative, but he still wanted better.

For Emma.

And definitely for his boy.

The clean slate would help with that, maybe.

(He hoped, anyway.) (That didn't mean it didn't hurt.)

Emma, he thought (or guessed anyway), had started to think along much the same lines. Something he had nearly missed. But Neal had come home one evening, finding Emma in a far better mood than when he had left her that morning. And while he had begun to grow used to the ups and downs of her volatile mood in the past few months, this had been something far more reminiscent of the girl he had first met. Happier, even.

(Which, maybe, should have been a warning sign.)

But he had walked in on her humming to herself as she chopped vegetables, her smile not only reaching her eyes, but it had almost seemed to sparkle too.

(Even the fact that the edge of the chicken had turned out slightly charred didn't weigh on her like it usually did.)

"What happened today?" he had asked with a certain wonder because even that had seemed like a dramatic shift for a girl trapped in the hell of hormone city.

She'd shrugged and kissed his cheek as she passed. "Nothing."

"Something," he had retorted, helping clear the table.

"I just," she switched on the faucet, "let it go."

"Let what go?" he'd prompted, scraping leftovers into an already full garbage bag.

She had smiled. Big and bright. " _Everything."_

He hadn't been able to fathom what that meant, exactly, but if it gave Emma that sort of joy, even temporarily, then he had no desire to question the shift beyond that. Instead, he had struggled through securing the overstuffed garbage bag and then took it down to the already full dumpster. And, in his attempt to stuff the bag down in there, nice and good, a hint of white and purple caught his eye. He'd dug around a bit, until fingers had wrapped around the soft knitted material, pulling it carefully out, shoebox and all, removing the loosened top to reveal a bunch of Emma's old things. Baby blanket included.

 _Everything_ , he had realized.

He'd closed the box quickly and, after only a moment's hesitation, shoved it under a pile of nearby crates. Later, on one of those Saturdays when Emma had work and he didn't, he had snuck it back into the apartment, hiding it in a box of his garage sale treasures that he knew Emma had no desire to ever rummage through.

Neal didn't miss a lot about his old life, not really, but sometimes he'd find himself longing for something from _before_. Before it had all gone to hell. If only to help remind him of the good that had existed before all the bad. And Emma's stuff, he knew, represented something different, the unanswered questions, haunting her, because she had never gotten that real family experience. But he knew too that, at one point anyway, that hadn't made the box's content any less valuable to her. And he didn't know _why_ that had changed. If it gave Emma peace of mind, however, then he wouldn't dare take that from her. But on the slight chance that she might regret it someday then it'd be there. Waiting. Hidden, maybe, but ready for her to take back.

For now though, they'd have their clean slate. They deserved it. Their son most of all, who would come into this world innocent and full of hope and potential. Neal wouldn't burden him with the past, but he would find a way to give him _everything_ he could, starting with a strong name.

x-x-x-x-x

"I don't do birthdays," Emma had told Neal after he'd asked when hers was, attempting to drop it into the conversation in a way no one would actually call subtle or casual. She had appreciated the thought, of course, but he didn't need to worry about it. Because she didn't do birthdays.

(Nevermind that he had done this back in Portland _after_ she had presented him with a stale cupcake for _his_ birthday.) (Which, even with her super sleuthing, wound up six days too late.) (But she had tried, at least, and it wasn't _her_ fault that all his 'official' papers came with fake dates.)

She assumed, really, that would have marked the end of it. Neal never brought it up again and now, of course, they agreed that every penny not spent on bills and their basic survival needs absolutely had to go to the baby.

Emma tried to do her part with this, of course. Not that she'd ever been the type to splurge or anything, but when she went grocery shopping she actually made a list. _And_ then she stuck to it. Y'know, rather than throwing anything that looked good into the cart.

(An especially difficult task considering she was pregnant and _everything_ looked good.) (Even the things she didn't normally like.)

She furthered this effort by switching to things like those cheap shampoo-and-conditioner combo, knock-off _things_ (even if it absolutely killed her hair), and Joy had shown her tips and tricks on how to _really_ cut corners. Things like double coupons and how to make her own laundry detergent (which, surprisingly, wasn't _that_ bad). And Emma had even continued her somewhat feeble effort to find a better job. But she had ultimately given up, realizing that even if someone bothered to hire her, she'd have to go on maternity leave not long after. So instead, rather than waste her time on a pointless chore, she had asked for longer shifts at the restaurant. Which her boss granted her, even if Neal clearly wished he hadn't.

"Then cut back on your hours," Neal would say, half-pleading with her when she complained about exhaustion, swollen feet, and an aching back.

But honestly, it wasn't the work that continually wore her down. At least not _just_ the work. Because almost eight months in now and Emma had decided that she absolutely despised being pregnant. Really. It _sucked._ First people asked personal, prying question and then tried to paw at her stomach. And, of course, Emma couldn't forget the silent looks of judgment when she'd say that no, actually, she wasn't married.

"Maybe we _should_ get married," said Neal when she complained to him about this and he looked earnest enough that she knew he really wouldn't mind doing it. He might have even wanted to.

But that wasn't the point. Not really.

(She had never really worried about defining her relationship with Neal anyway. They just _were_.)

Worse, maybe, was when she had to contend with the unfortunate things like the fact that nothing fit her the way she wanted it too, she could never get comfortable because she sat on patio furniture and slept on a mattress, and even when she could get comfortable a little necessity called sleep _still_ kept refusing her because Florida was always too _fucking_ hot.

She must have complained about it one too many times, because one night, the day before her birthday (the one she refused to acknowledge), Neal simply shot out of bed, taking the covers with him. She figured he'd gotten enough of her and planned to go sleep on the couch (or in the recliner rather), to which she said good riddance because he'd done this to her in the first place.

(She wasn't _really_ mad.) (Not in a serious sort of way.) (Just annoyed really.) (Being pregnant sucked.)

"Come on," he said, turning on the lights and forcing Emma to squint unhappily, "get dressed."

"What?" she asked as she reached blindly for her glasses.

"Or go in your pj's if you want. Up to you." Then he disappeared into the bathroom leaving Emma to blink dumbly and wonder what the hell he planned to do in the middle of the night.

Twenty minutes later, after bundling her into the bug, they sped down the highway, Neal stubbornly refusing to answer her questions. So eventually, _finally,_ she fell asleep to the sounds of Lou Reed on the radio and the feeling of a refreshing breeze on her face.

These days she didn't even need an alarm clock. Not when her baby thought she had a soccer ball for a stomach and a teddy bear for a bladder. Apparently though, Neal's secrets plans didn't involve any sleep at all because two short hours later he shook her awake.

"I was going to wait until the morning to leave," he said as he helped her out of the car (she hated to admit it, but she was big enough now that she actually did need the help), "But seeing as we were up _anyway_ I figured we'd might as well get a head start. Happy Birthday, Emma."

Her stolen watch told her that it was indeed after midnight.

She did a quick survey of her surroundings.

He had stopped in an empty parking lot.

She frowned and then collapsed back into the bug, blinking up at him. "I don't understand."

Neal had clearly expected a different reaction because he sputtered a bit before asking, "Don't understand what?"

Emma narrowed her eyes, "How'd you know what today was?"

"I just looked at your driver's license," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "I _know_ you said you didn't want to –"

"I _don't_ ," she stressed, almost scathingly.

He took a step back, saying slowly, "Okay."

"Were you just going to leave me here?" asked Emma.

Neal spluttered again, letting out a defensive, " _Hey."_

And she immediately deflated because, okay, hearing it? Looking at the man in front of her? Not one _thing_ about that didn't sound ridiculous. Still kinda mad about the direct violation of her wishes, however, she only managed to mutter a somewhat petulant, "I'm sorry."

She really hated today.

Neal must have sensed this because he swore and then knelt down in front of her, guiding her chin to look at him, breaking her pointed glare at the far-reaching space surrounding them where she saw nothing but pavement, yellow lines, and what might have been a poorly constructed fence.

The unfortunate scent of rotting fish also hung in the air.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmured, "I didn't even think about what today was for you. We can go. Come back another day."

He didn't understand. The why of it at least. Not, really. But he had _tried._ Which was more than most people and, of course, she just went and stomped all over his attempt because of her own stupid hang-ups. Crap she had sworn she'd already let go of.

She furrowed her brow and asked, somewhat skeptically, "Come back where?"

"You mean you didn't notice?" He asked teasingly, and she rolled her eyes because obviously not and he grinned, pulling her to her feet before he pressed a finger to his mouth, murmuring, "Just listen."

So she did. But she didn't hear anything. Not at first anyway. But then –

"Are those," almost too much to hope for, she said the next part tentatively, "waves?"

He gave her that look of his – all temptation and excitement, taking a step back, tugging on her hand. "C'mon, then. Let's go check it out."

"Babe," she warned, lips twitching, her mouth inching up in spite of herself, threatening to burst into a giant grin if she didn't control it, "it's probably closed."

He raised a brow, a mischievous smile already lighting up his face when he asked, "When has that ever stopped us?"

True enough. So with that grin successfully breaking loose, Emma let Neal pull her in the direction of a wooden dock, ducking under his arm when he raised a feeble rope that indeed marked the beach as closed. Eventually the man-made structure gave way to sand, and immediately Emma slipped her flip-flops off, letting herself enjoy the soft, gritty sensation of sand between her toes. They walked forward to where sand met ocean and fresh warm water crashed around her ankles. Stars and ocean laid out in front of them, stretching, reaching seemingly forever into the ether until they finally met on the distant horizon.

"What do you think?" asked Neal hesitantly. "I know –" He made a vague gesture behind him to indicate _before_ , "And that we're trying to save everything we can for the baby. So this is it really. But –"

Emma didn't let him finish, cutting him off with a searing kiss. "No. It's perfect. I mean it. It's the best thing anyone's ever given me. And I'm sorry about –"

She imitated him, gesturing toward the parking lot somewhat sheepishly.

(She would have apologized for the constant complaints just hours earlier too, but then they wouldn't have left when they had and having the beach to themselves actually made it that much better.)

He scrunched his nose, still all smiles as he waved off her apology. And she wanted to tell him then because if anyone should know then it _was_ Neal, but everything was suddenly so perfect. Emma didn't want to drag the mood down with her stupid shit. _Again._

"You know what this reminds me of?" Emma prompted him a little while later after they had started slowly making their way down the length of beach, waves crashing against their feet.

Neal acknowledged her with a lazy, contended hum and she grinned.

"Our first date."

They had kinda done the swings in Adventureland, yeah (another sit and talk thing, Neal bribing the operator as the park got close to closing because pregnant woman and rides didn't actually mix). But now? With the sneaking around and relaxed, unforced atmosphere … well, it did a much better job of capturing the mood of that first night.

"Technically," he said lightly, obviously catching on to what she meant, "that was drinks."

" _Coffee,_ rather."

(Fuck. She _missed_ coffee.)

"You know," she added, only far more serious this time, "I'm really glad I stole your car."

She couldn't offer him more than that. Like he'd said they couldn't really afford anything right now anyway, but after all he had given and done for her in the past eleven months ( _fuck –_ were they really coming up on a year together), Emma couldn't think of anything better to give Neal than the fact that she had no regrets.

His eyes crinkled as he grinned stupidly, telling Emma she had guessed right.

"Me too," he said, squeezing her hand.

He talked her into stripping down to her bra and underwear and they made their way into the water. Emma somewhat tentatively at first until Neal forced the issue with an obnoxious splash that she quickly returned.

(Despite it being her birthday, officially marking her as a year older, she felt younger than she had in a long time.)

They wound up wrapped in each other's arms, kissing languidly in the water for a time before, one by one, the stars started to fade and so Neal made a quick trip to the car, returning with a beach bag that contained things like dry clothes and, of course, towels, one of which he laid out on the sand where they settled in to watch the sunrise.

And then, suddenly, in what should have been a picture perfect moment the words just burst out of her.

"I was almost adopted once," she told him, all awkward and stilted and rushed.

He blinked, obviously surprised, before he flipped on his side, staring at her intently as he waited for her to continue.

"Yeah," she breathed, "I got an official placement about a month and half after they found me on _that_ ," she pressed her lips together, silently indicating the highway her parents had so recklessly abandoned her on, "And fuck, I must have been there, with them, for nearly four years and on my third birthday they got me what should have been … the _best_ present. They sat me down and said they wanted to adopt me."

Neal threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed tightly while Emma smiled sadly. "I was excited, of course, because they were clearly pleased by it. But I didn't really understand what it meant, y'know. Because as far as I was concerned they _were_ my family. Or whatever stupid understanding I had of _that_ at three."

Emma sniffed and rubbed her free hand gently across her stomach. "They were already pregnant by then. They'd been trying for _years_ , but Eliza _loved_ kids and had always wanted a big family so it didn't seem like it'd be that big of a deal. And then the baby was born and it was _hard._ Like babies tend to be. They stuck it out at first. For a few months even. I can't even remember what the tipping point was honestly. But they sent me back."

And if she hadn't understood what adoption was, she definitely hadn't understood the concept of: " _Mommy and daddy aren't coming back,"_ or " _They weren't really your parents,"_ or _"Your REAL parents abandoned you."_

That had taken her years to really fully digest.

But at nearly four she had started to reach _that_ age. That point where prospective parents just weren't interested. They almost always wanted the young ones. And she had been young enough still, she supposed, but when someone _did_ ask they got to hear about the almost adoption and if four _five_ SIX wasn't a red mark against her then _that_ wasbecause they always wanted to know why it fell through and clearly the problem must have been her and who, really, wanted to deal with that sort of baggage.

"That's where Swan comes from, y'know," she murmured, "Eliza and Bennett Swan. My almost family."

Neal remained quiet for a long time. A sure sign that there wasn't anything, really, to say to that. He wore a hard, intense look though and then he settled on, "We don't have to do birthdays. Yours or mine. We can just stick to the little guy's."

Her lips twitched, "Today _was_ nice though."

He smiled, "Yeah?"

She nodded, "I like the beach."

Just, maybe, next time they could do without the surprise factor.

"Well, beaches are nice," Neal agreed playfully before he shifted and, quite seriously, he told her, "It's not gonna be too hard."

Her smile fell. "You don't know that."

"Oh, I don't doubt we've got a rocky road ahead of us," Neal said and she _supposed_ he meant it as something reassuring. "But there's no such thing as _too_ hard. Not when your heart's really in it. And I don't know why theirs wasn't, Em, because I can't imagine anyone meeting you and _not_ being completely head over heels." She ducked her head, a hint of pink heating up her cheeks. "I _see_ you though. Warts and all. And I'm still here. I'll _always_ –"

"You don't –"

She didn't want him to make her a promise. Not today. He'd mean it, of course, she knew that. But _they_ had meant it too.

Neal shook his head, however, a hand settling on her stomach.

"I do," he told her, "because you deserve a good memory. I'm _always_ gonna be there. And every year, on this day, you're gonna remember _this_ conversation and you'll see that I kept my word. Because I'm in this."

" _Neal –_ "

"Fresh start, remember?" he prompted her and she nodded. " _Together?"_

"Together," she agreed.

And suddenly Neal grinned. "I think that's it, baby?" A beat passed and at her blank look, he elaborated, "What we name the baby after. It doesn't have to be a person or a friend or our favorite musician. Just something that's important to us, right?" She gave a slow nod, and he continued, now all excited enthusiasm, "Like the place where we met. The place where it all changed."

It was a nice thought. One Emma really liked actually. She just couldn't fathom how Portland would work for a name.

"There's Porter though," Neal pointed out just as streaks of pink and orange stretched across the sky.

"Porter," Emma tested, hands sliding across her stomach. He'd been awake for a while now, rough kicks reminding her of his presence, the earlier swim refreshing enough to rouse him. "Porter Neal Swan. I like it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Neal?"

"Well, somebody should have your name, shouldn't they, _John_?" Emma finished pointedly. _Teasing_. "It's Neal or Baelfire. But either way we're naming him after you."

(Especially when they had both already decided that giving him her last name was the safer option. Even if they could mostly say they had officially outrun the trouble they had left behind in Portland.)

"Neal then," he said. He tried to act all casual and manly about it, but she could see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. "Neal is who I am now."

"Good," she turned, tasting salt and _him_ as she pressed kisses along his shoulder until she got to the base of his neck, fingers drawing patterns up and down his torso. "Hm. How long do you think we have?"

His hand curled its way into her still damp hair. "There's all day if you want it."

"No. I mean," she found his jaw, "do you think we have time for sex on the beach?"

Because, honestly, if they were going to have just one last juvenile act before the responsibility of parenthood kicked in then Emma could think of nothing better.

Neal agreed wholeheartedly. "Oh, absolutely."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading everyone and a big thanks to steelneena, maressaonce, and lilnudger82 for taking the time to review - OC's, while sometimes necessary, are always a little tricky so I'm glad you guys seemed to like Joy.

 **Next Chapter:** The New Rule


	7. The New Rule

**Chapter Seven: The New Rule**

Emma's favorite holiday, it turned out, was Thanksgiving.

"Because of the food," she clarified before adding, almost as an afterthought, hands rubbing circles on her stomach, "Though I suppose this year we do have something to be thankful for, don't we?"

And while Neal had never really celebrated the holiday himself, he kissed her cheek and agreed, even adding, "Lots of things."

So they made a big deal about Thanksgiving, Emma and Neal preparing to step out of their comfort zone to put together a meal worthy of the holiday.

(They had even invited Joy and Maya, but the pair already had plans, Maya's grandparents from Tom's side having invited them to visit in Texas.)

"We should have plenty of leftovers too," said Emma practically, "which'll be nice after the baby is born."

The baby's due date and the holiday pretty much fell on top of each other, making dinner preparations a trying task, further complicated by the fact that Emma and Neal had never cooked anything more elaborate than spaghetti and meatballs.

"They pre-cook these things," Neal observed, stopping in front of a display of turkeys packaged in plastic containers. "Maybe we should try it?"

Emma looked unimpressed. "You want a pre-cooked turkey?"

"Could be good," Neal said with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but Emma caught on almost immediately.

"You don't want me to cook," she said accusingly, "you don't think we can pull it off."

He really didn't. Maybe, if he hadn't just spent a day witnessing Emma's poor attempts to pick boxes off any shelf higher than her head or any lower than her waist he might have mustered up enough confidence. But if she could barely reach a box of stuffing, he had no idea how she planned to work the stove. Meaning he'd probably get stuck with the cooking and normally he didn't necessarily mind this. But really, with less than two weeks to go, Neal just wished Emma would let herself relax.

"I just thought we could save ourselves the hassle," Neal explained before very pointedly stepping away from the display. "But frozen? Just as good. Though … maybe slightly out of our wheelhouse."

"We have to learn sometime," she insisted, "children like home-cooked meals. They're comforting."

Neal, who had learned that his jokes didn't always mix well with his very pregnant audience, bit back the thought that it would be a few years before Porter started judging them on their cooking skills.

But Emma's worries and insecurities about their pending go at parenthood came in waves, reaching new heights the closer they got to her due date. She worried about everything. From money to baby-holding techniques. And then, of course, labor, and not having the strength to actually push the baby out.

"Do you think one's ever just gotten … _stuck_?" she had asked one evening over a baby book they had picked up from the library.

"No." And Neal felt … _fairly_ confident about that answer. He certainly wasn't going to say yes.

But Emma looked up at him over the book, all wide-eyes and guarded expression, forcing him to elaborate, tone calm and practical. "It's a natural process, Em, your body knows what to do even if you don't."

This mollified Emma somewhat even if she had later pointed out that women die in childbirth all the time. He replaced her book after that, getting her something much more current and with far less fear-inducing facts.

Naturally, she still found things to fret over. Emma's discomfort around children had faded as their friendship with Joy and Maya bloomed, but entertaining a five-year old remained very different from taking care of an infant.

"I haven't held one before," said Emma, cornering him in the bathroom one morning. "A baby. I never held one."

Neal didn't dare tell her that he hadn't either, refusing to give her any more reason to panic.

Instead he found a free baby-parenting-Lamaze class _thing_ at a local community center and they took a couple of classes that taught Emma exactly how to breathe during labor and then proper techniques for holding and burping and generally caring for a baby after it came out.

It helped, at least, to alleviate her more practical concerns.

Of course, they still had to contend with Emma's … well, insecurities.

He used the word loosely because he hated calling them that when Emma merely worried about how to best parent their child. And Neal understood her concerns. Because he had them too. That happened when you had a sucky life with even suckier parents.

But then, one night in bed, in a mere whisper nearly drowned out by the passing sirens outside their open window, she had even admitted to a nearly asleep Neal that she worried she would make a horrible mother.

(He hated that she thought that.)

"I think you're doing a wonderful job," said Neal. And he did. In fact, he considered himself a very good judge of this good and bad mother thing. Maybe not expert material, seeing how few examples he could actually draw upon, but he had at least witnessed Joy's and Mrs. Darling's parenting and then, upon discovering the truth about his own mother's disappearance, the complete lack of hers. There were very obvious differences between the two.

"I haven't even done anything yet," she said, somewhat exasperated in that way that told Neal she thought he wasn't taking her seriously enough.

"But Emma, can't you see it?" he whispered passionately. "You've done all the important things. You've loved him and put him first. Even when you weren't sure we should keep him, you were still trying to do what was best for him."

"Yeah, but –"

"But what, Em?" He flipped on his side, propping himself up on an elbow so he hovered somewhat above her, the only way he could ensure she was paying attention. "You're not alone in this, remember? I'm going to be here and we're going to muddle through things together. All the late nights and spit-ups and what-have-you. Plus, Joy said she'd help too. You've even got your pals from work looking out for you."

Which she couldn't deny. The day she officially went on maternity leave, Gretchen and Mark and a few of the others with names he'd never bothered to learn had presented Emma with a bunch of baby supplies. Diapers and wipes, a cute little car-covered onesie, and a few other necessities all packed into a car seat that had left Emma looking visibly touched.

"You are not alone," he repeated and he would continue to harp on that point until she got it.

Emma stared up at him with wide eyes. "I know," she relented, though not convincingly enough. "I just …"

Neal shook his head because no more just's. They needed to stop what if'ing because they could do this. He had faith.

"Look at everything that's happened since we got here, baby," he said, settling onto a pillow, Emma turning her head leaving them close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. "Like lucking into an apartment our first go, meeting this kindly woman who just _happens_ to be good-hearted enough to give her furniture away, no run-ins with the law. Babe, our luck's changed and that's gotta be a sign. A sign that we're meant to keep this kid. Because we can do this."

Emma had that look. Her ' _are you shitting me_ ' look. "You believe in that?"

"Yeah," he said easily. He believed it even when it knocked him on his ass. "But even if I didn't that doesn't change the fact that I believe in you. I believe you are going to raise the hell out of this kid, okay?" He heard Emma's breath hitch and her expression softened, hard lines falling away and he hoped that meant, somehow, he'd gotten through to her. "I have faith in you."

Emma gave him a half, closed-lipped smile. "Thank you." She kissed him lightly, restraining herself because the final weeks of her pregnancy had drained her of energy, turning her off sex completely and she'd been making a conscious effort to not lead Neal on or whatever, knowing it'd probably be a while before they could sleep together again. Obviously she underestimated her power over him and he deepened the kiss, content with what he could get.

"I believe in you too, kay," she whispered against his mouth. "And us. _Together._ "

Neal smiled into the kiss, managing a murmured, "Together."

And while they didn't abate completely, Emma's concerns quieted somewhat after this. A good thing, really, because as they got closer and closer to the big day, Neal found that it became increasingly difficult for him to ignore his own case of growing nerves. He came up with better ways to hide it than Emma, he thought, channeling all his nervous energy into various pet projects around the apartment. Something he'd meant to do anyway after too many of his complaints to the Super had gone unanswered. But obviously his son shouldn't have to live somewhere with a leaky faucet and a fridge that went bump in the night.

This, however, only caused Emma to worry about different sorts of things.

(At least they had shifted off their singular baby-minded focus though.)

"You're going to break it," she said as he banged away at pipes and pulled at wires. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

Neal _hadn't_ known what he was doing, but he had figured it out. Well, he had fixed the sink and he thought, maybe, he had fixed the fridge until it stopped working entirely.

"Do you know how much fridges cost?" said Emma fretfully as she ate a melting container of Rocky Road ice cream and scanned the ads from that Sunday's paper. Neal, meanwhile, had taken on the project with a renewed determination. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd never started nesting."

"Nesting?" What a ridiculous thing to say. "I wasn't nesting."

Emma snorted. "You were _so_ nesting. And now you're going to have to find one of your precious garage sales, hope they have a fridge they're looking to unload, and get a price we can afford. Three days before Thanksgiving."

"Or I could fix this one," he said, before eyeing Emma. "You could help, you know."

Emma returned his look with a silent _yeah, right._ "I know less about fixing fridges then you do."

He handed her a manual that looked like it might be even older then she was and pointed her to the appropriate section. "There. Now you know just as much as me."

Emma read between bites of ice cream while he focused on trying to separate dusty wires.

"It's okay if you can't fix the fridge," said Emma eventually. He could feel her eyes on him, intense, only softened by the practical yet sympathetic lilt to her voice. "We'll figure something else out."

Neal grunted a reply. He'd be glad to see the mood swings end with her pregnancy.

"And," she continued, raising her voice, "not fixing it isn't some sign from higher beings that you're going to be a horrible dad."

(Right. He really should have known that sharing the fact that he believed in things like destiny and fate would come back and bite him in the ass eventually.)

He looked at her sharply. "I wasn't –"

"Weren't you?" she asked, raising a brow. And okay, maybe he had started freaking out, but he didn't want Emma to know that, worried that she might take it as a sign that they weren't cut out for this, after all.

Though maybe they weren't, and he had just projected his hope onto a few would-be coincidences. Just because bad luck ruled most of his life that didn't necessarily mean a sudden turn for the better had to mean something.

(Right?)

Emma made the effort to join him on the floor but gave up, reaching a hand out for him instead, wriggling her fingers until he took them, brushing off invisible dust and joining her at the table.

"I know I've been freaking out a lot," she said, covering his hand with her own, "and you've been a saint, really. But you can freak out too because I think, maybe, it's okay to be scared. As long as we do it together."

"Together," he agreed roughly and Neal felt Emma squeeze his hand, giving him an encouraging smile that soon faded into an expectant look. Right, he supposed that meant talk about it.

It wasn't something he talked about.

The closest he had gotten was on the swings in that closed fair with Emma. And hardly anything since. Not even when she'd kiss him, gently rousing him from nightmares that he couldn't escape, talking nonsense at him and stroking his hair until he fell asleep. She had asked, of course, if he had wanted to talk about it but had been mostly content to let things go when it was obvious that he didn't want to.

(He wanted to.) (With her and more than he ever had before.) (He just didn't know how.) (And as their time together passed the point became increasingly moot, the nightmares turning from a constant to a rarity to a, mostly, thing of the past.)

Maybe though, with the baby coming, there were certain things he _should_ learn to share with Emma.

"I've just been thinking a lot," he admitted finally, "about my father, y'know?"

Emma gave a knowing nod, a thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand, "You're not like that, Neal."

"But he wasn't either, not at first. And what if it's," he swallowed thickly, glancing down at their joined hands, "what if it's something that you _can't_ control? Something that just happens, no matter how hard you fight it?"

Emma pressed her lips together and he knew that she was trying to resist the urge to counter his fears with the fact that everyone had choices and it was those choices that made you who you are.

Neal mostly believed that too, that his choices somehow mattered, except when he believed in other things, like forces that acted outside of them, pushing events to reach some sort of hidden agenda, only granting them the illusion of control when, really, they were puppets in someone else's play. Because for every one of his actions he had felt the direct consequences of, like his stupid stunt with the watches, he had just as many examples of things done _to_ him. And he mostly kept his head above water, continued swimming, but sometimes he fucked up too, maybe because a part of him felt like the universe owed him a break that he apparently hadn't earned. Something he couldn't quite fathom because maybe, if things like karma did exist, he could understand that he hadn't done enough to earn the positive yet, but he didn't think he had quite earned all the negative either.

Of course, he couldn't regret anything too much because it got him to things like Portland and Emma and Tallahassee. But he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop too, waiting for something that would force his hand into doing something he wouldn't necessarily do otherwise.

Like his father had done for him.

Because even if he feared the monster that his father had become, he could maybe understand _why_ Rumpelstiltskin had made the choices he had. Because Neal knew that he'd do just about anything to protect his kid. Easy. It wasn't even a question.

That's what scared him.

Emma regarded him carefully, clearly biting back questions she knew he didn't want her to ask. Then finally, looking at him with intense eyes and a serious expression, she said, "Then let's make a promise. In fact, we'll make it our _new_ Rule Number One. Whatever happens we put our kid first. Even if the thing we have to protect him from is one of us. No matter what," she finished firmly, bringing their joined hands to her stomach, "Porter comes first."

He considered her carefully.

"So if I turn into an abusive ass," Neal said, "you'll take Porter so I can't hurt him?"

"That's never going to happen," insisted Emma. "But yes, if I have to choose between you and Porter then I pick him. And naturally, I fully expect you to do the same, yeah?"

"Even less likely," countered Neal lightly before sobering himself, "but yes."

"Then that's settled," she said, bringing his hand up and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Now what should we do about the fridge?"

He laughed and pulled over one of the ads that Emma had been pouring through, feeling better. It wasn't the most ideal solution _obviously_. It didn't even really absolve him of his fear of accidentally making some big blundering mistake like his father had.

(Though he, at least, understood that those fears were not lined with any sort of rationality.)

But it gave Porter something that their own parents had never bothered to give them. A back-up plan. A Plan B. _Something_ that could give him and Emma the peace of mind that their son would always be taken care of and safe. Even in the unlikely scenario that something happened to one of them or, even less likely, that he or Emma turned into something remarkably like the pathetic excuse that passed for their parents.

Porter came first. That was all that mattered.

x-x-x-x-x

They bought a new fridge. One day before Thanksgiving and handing the money over was so stressful that Emma's stomach started to knot in the same way it used to whenever she moved in with a new foster family. She neglected to tell Neal this, of course, not wanting him to feel worse about breaking their already half-broken fridge and instead did a fine job of directing delivery men into their feeble kitchen and then directing Neal on which shelves and drawers their foodstuff belonged.

(She just couldn't move anymore and she had no idea what she'd been thinking trying to put together an actual dinner one week before her due date.)

The next day Neal made pumpkin pie, Emma whipped potatoes at the kitchen table, and they actually followed a recipe when they prepared the turkey. So naturally, with only forty-five minutes left until the bird finished roasting, Emma went into labor, water breaking all over their kitchen floor.

"That'd explain the stomach ache," said Emma wryly before clutching the counter because oh, _that_ was definitely a contraction.

Neal remained perfectly calm, directing her to the door, before cussing under his breath when she asked if he remembered to turn off the stove.

"Hey," he said, offering Emma a significant look some time later as they slowly made their way down three flights of stairs. "Porter's almost here."

Emma breathed deeply, very focused on not doing something incredibly stupid like dropping the baby right there on those steps.

(Because _that_ was definitely how it worked.)

"Figured that out, thanks."

"No, Emma," Neal insisted and she at least looked at him this time, finding soft features and bright eyes, "Porter's on his way."

Emma softened, though her smile remained tight around the edges. "He's on his way," she echoed, matching every bit of his wonder as thoughts of finally holding their son danced around in her head.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading and a big thank you to **lilnudger82** and **steelneena** for taking the time to review.

To answer lilnudger82's question: Yes? No? Maybe? Honestly that depends on what you mean by past, I guess. And that's not me trying to dodge the question - I just don't want to make a false promise or give too much away. But I will go ahead and say things like: Emma and Neal will continue to test the limits of Neal's false identity. Emma only knows a part of the story with the Swans. Neal will continue to reveal bits and pieces about himself. Both of them will still struggle with their abandonment/family issues. August and Storybrooke are still out there. And so on.

I'll add that there's a sort of act break after the next chapter - I did (or tried to anyway) a lot of set-up in the first 8 chapters and so a lot of themes and story threads (things like the rules even - that last one shows up next chapter) that were in these chapters tend to reoccur and come back later. :)

 **Next Chapter:** Porter


	8. Porter

**Chapter Eight: Porter**

Emma had this thing about food.

Most, Emma included, called it a healthy appetite and wiped their hands of it. Neal had assumed much the same at first, finding the absolute joy she took in eating one of her more endearing quirks, personally delighting in the way it seemed to strip her of the stress she typically carried, providing a glimpse of that carefree, playful side she so rarely let out of its cage as she nibbled on a candy bar or tried to choose which day-old sandwich she wanted.

She would eat anything, enjoying (almost) everything she put in her mouth, all of it getting treated like a delectable dish from a five-star restaurant rather than whatever cheap brand knock-off fit into their fragile budget. She ate when she was hungry or bored or just feeling particularly playful. When her mood turned sour and she needed comfort or simply something to help relieve the stress, she'd go for the unhealthiest sweet in their stash. But back in Portland, when they actually had money to spend, she'd always, _always_ , go straight to an over-priced coffee shop, bypassing the desserts hidden behind glass to order a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and cinnamon.

Neal had found it almost amusing until he realized that food, or more specifically her passionate attachment to it, stemmed from her need for some sort of constant. Addresses, schools, friends and so-called families all changed in a continuous, swirling rotation as she got bounced from home to home (even more frequently than Neal had once found himself traveling between worlds). But food? That remained a constant presence.

Foster parents could get away with a lot of shit, at least the way Emma told it, but they _had_ to keep food in the house (even if the assholes didn't necessarily intend it to go to the kids). And Emma, whether she realized it or not (most definitely not), had learned to depend on it, turning to it for comfort and to satisfy whatever other emotional needs she required.

And while Neal had, maybe, wished that Emma could grow to trust him for those sorts of things, he knew that would only come with time, and so settled for always nicking a little something extra just for her. He had started, back in Portland, stuffing extra candy bars in his back pockets whenever they found themselves out and about, pulling one out whenever she'd start to get crabby. She'd waver, knowing she probably shouldn't with resources so tight and all, but then she'd just grab at it, tear at the wrapper, and then give him that half smile that she always saved just for him, offering him a silent thanks.

(She would always, _always,_ wordlessly hand half of whatever back to him. She considered this an important part of Rule Number One-now-Two: _Nobody gets left behind_.)

Even now, in a hospital room on Thanksgiving, Neal had a candy bar in his back pocket and on the heels of what had sounded like a particularly painful contraction, he itched to pull it out, because if anything could, maybe, distract Emma he'd bet her favorite Apollo bar could get the job done. But the doctors had been pretty clear on the no food rule and Neal feared the consequences of breaking it.

Still. That didn't stop him from sneaking Emma some extra ice chips the moment the nurse disappeared down the hall.

"Thanks," she murmured, voice hoarse. She chewed the pieces slowly, _carefully_ , as if that would make them last longer. Or maybe, just maybe, magically turn bits of frozen water into something warm and gooey and chocolate that she could savor in her attempt to block out the pain.

He pushed aside sweaty hair, squeezed her hand, and kissed her forehead as he whispered words of encouragement and love in her ear before sneaking her yet another piece of ice because what else could he do, really?

He did all this and tried not to worry. But honestly? He had never felt more helpless.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Neal had this thing about stars.

Back in Portland they'd park the bug in empty parking lots or abandoned fields for the night and, in his attempt to avoid sleep, Neal would stare out the window up at inky black skies and whenever she'd inevitably ask what had him looking so intense, he'd point out a constellation for her, tracing the stars with his fingers, weaving some fantastical tale that she swore felt like he'd made it up just for her. She'd grown up with the same stars, of course, but you wouldn't think so when he gave her different names to accompany the different stories behind them. He oozed a certain confidence in his renditions, the stories feeling familiar and detailed enough that Emma could never quite decide if she thought he had truly grown up with these strange versions about ogres and dragons or if he merely used them as a front, working his charisma like he did during one of their cons, bullshitting at her so she wouldn't press things, asking what he'd really been thinking so hard about.

They both kind of sucked at the sleeping thing. Emma did alright once she fell into a blissful slumber, but it would still take her forever to get there, her mind this loud and busy thing, impossible to turn off no matter how much she desperately wished it to. Neal, on the other hand, would just flat-out avoid sleep, waiting until he could no longer keep his eyes open, exhaustion finally pulling him under against even his own stubborn will.

So he would distract them both, telling her about the stars, and Emma would listen until she just heard the deep, rocky sounds of his voice more than any actual words because the sound of it soothed her, covering her like a blanket and warming her, making her feel safe until she'd eventually drift off, nothing but the sound of Neal's voice in her ears and stars behind her eyes.

And she'd wake up, the backdrop still night, as the sounds of thrashing and Neal's heavy breathing jerked her out of pleasant dreams and blissful oblivion, Neal struggling to battle nightmares he never talked about and only calming when he realized that he had never left the bug they shared, remembering that the memories haunting the dark corners of his mind hadn't actually escaped the past.

She did her best to ease the transition back to reality, attempting awkward words of comfort and well-meaning squeezes of her hand, even going as far as to share her own pathetic recollections about the stars. The ones she'd grown up with. Stories about big dippers and women trapped on thrones. He'd listen so intently that it almost felt like he had never actually heard those particular versions and Emma would sometimes wish that she had a better imagination so she could, maybe, offer him something new. Something that would make it easier to forget whatever so obviously haunted him.

(But hers just kinda sucked, forever stuck in reality, refusing to even offer a distraction that she could use to lull _herself_ to sleep, let alone someone else.)

Then, some nights, when things got really bad, and well after a certain amount of familiarity and trust had built up, she'd climb into the back or fold herself into the front (despite Neal's ridiculous attempts at chivalry they had switched off each night at her insistence and in strict accordance of the many subparts she now considered a part of Rule Number One-now-Two) where she'd just lay with him, running fingers through his hair and whispering whatever silly thought popped into her head.

That had led to their second-first kiss. This soft, tender sort of thing that barely counted as a brush of the lips, but still felt far more meaningful than the awkward, lust-filled things she had experienced every single time before him.

(Naturally that had to mean it didn't count. Because just like he had flat-out refused to acknowledge their first-first kiss, he couldn't even remember their second-first kiss.)

(Emma thought that was kind of a shame.)

Eventually, though, their relationship _did_ progress and they would fall asleep in a sweaty mess of tangled limbs, all scrunched up in the back. _Together._ And while it eventually started to happen less and less (and it hardly ever happened _now)_ , Neal would still wake up, chest heaving, and when he did Emma would run her fingers through his messy hair that she'd grown to love and whisper nonsense at him and just try not to move too much when pins and needles began to jab at one of her squashed limbs.

It took her awhile to understand it. Why he made her feel safe and why she felt the need to do the same for him and why she felt happy, like, all the time. And even as she put the pieces together, she still couldn't bring herself to put words to this big, _huge_ , HUMONGOUS thing.

Because if she put words to it that would make it real.

And real equaled terrifying.

Kinda like now, when Emma found herself on the verge of motherhood, her body attempting to do this thing that she could barely wrap her head around because no matter how many books she had read or how many videos she had watched in some feeble attempt to prepare, Emma still didn't quite get _how_. And she definitely didn't want to admit it because she wanted to power through and get this done and have her baby, but it _hurt_ and she was scared and as much as the ice chips did _not_ help she was still really glad to have Neal right _there_ to give them to her.

"Neal," she murmured on the heels of a particularly painful contraction, head falling back onto starchy pillows, turning to peer up at him. She didn't think she could do it, really. She hadn't even gotten to the hard part yet and exhaustion had already started to pull at her.

"Yeah, baby?" He tried for a smile, but it came out strained and he looked worried.

Maybe they could both use the distraction.

"Tell me a story."

He told her all about the stars.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Loving Emma was easy.

Not in an obvious sort of way because while they had both gotten dealt a shitty hand in one way or another, they also tended to see things differently – Emma finding it impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel while he couldn't see anything _but._ They understood the important things though, pushing each other, meeting somewhere in the middle because even if they couldn't agree on _how_ to get there, they still shared the same values, desperately longing for the same things.

And along the way they challenged each other, Neal encouraging Emma to dream, helping her to fly past the limitations she had placed on herself, breaking the chains of whatever restraints kept holding her back. And, in turn, she helped to ground him, showing Neal the consequences that came with getting too carried away by whatever happened to catch his fancy in a particular moment, reminding him that the world didn't always operate in his realm of hopeful optimism.

And sure, sometimes he found the way Emma would stubbornly refuse to believe in herself and just all the possibilities that came with _life_ just a _tad_ frustrating. But it just seemed so painfully obvious to him, before she had introduced herself even, that she could do anything she set her mind to. Probably through pure power of will alone.

Emma, he knew, had every reason to get frustrated with him too. What? With the way he jumped into things with little regard to the consequences. Often, he realized appearing as though he didn't take things at all seriously. He used humor as a defense mechanism and, according to Emma, had way too much optimism (though he also knew that she not-so secretly admired him for it). They called each other out on their shit though and _that,_ Neal thought, made them work (fights and all). So Neal would try and remind her that she could dream and hope and, maybe, even let herself go sometimes while Emma would flat-out accuse him of getting his head stuck in the clouds and then chide him when he didn't think things through properly.

(He was working on it now though, in the desperate attempt to become a worthy father that would never fail his son.)

Neal liked his gut though. It rarely steered him wrong.

Like that first night, back in Portland, when he had sat himself across from her on the swings in a closed park, clutching a warm cup of coffee? He'd known, just _known_ , that he could love her and so he let himself fall.

She'd made it easy too.

(Even if she didn't, exactly, make it look that way.)

Emma had that bristly exterior that covered walls of steel and yeah, she'd mince words, often bypassing her true meaning when she spoke about anything personal because she just didn't know how. She'd show him though, that she cared, often without really realizing it. An emotional conversation often left her stiff, her words jilted, but she'd squeeze his hand or rub that spot on his back between his shoulder blades and it worked just as well, if not better than empty words of comfort. He saw it in everything she did, really, often while hiding behind the guise of the former Rule Number One, making sub-laws, insisting that they share food and switch off, scoffing at his attempts at being polite, and forcing him to take a turn in the backseat so that one of them hadn't always gotten scrunched up in the front of the bug every night.

Emma had this fierce, protective streak about her too. Surprising, maybe, given that she had grown up with that survivalist, every-man-for-herself mentality, but through Portland and trusty old Rule Number One-now-Two she had carried a strict we both get out or not at all mandate. It was how they both got _here_. Tallahassee.

She loved that way too. She didn't realize it, he didn't think, how fiercely she loved, taking him and their son under her wing, trying to make up for a lifetime of no one worrying about her by trying to account for all the things she couldn't control and controlling all the things she could.

She loved silently and he hoped, someday, she'd grow comfortable enough, letting her love turn into something as loud and vibrant as those impossibly large smiles she'd share with him at her happiest. Maybe it'd even become just shy of frivolous, something that she could _just_ spare, because then, while still precious, that meant, maybe, she could no longer call it this rarity in her life – it would simply exist, filling every corner of her world. Because she deserved that.

(He hoped to _always_ give her that.)

He loved all these things about her. And more.

Like he said: Loving Emma was easy.

Probably the easiest thing he'd ever done.

And then they went to that first ultrasound and they heard the baby's heartbeat; this strong, steady thing for this tiny speck of a person bundled away inside Emma for safekeeping and loving him was even easier. Natural. Like breathing.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any easier he heard his son cry for the first time, this impossibly loud wail for this ridiculously tiny thing and he wouldn't have thought it, but he had never heard anything more beautiful. It caused everything else to fall away. Worries and trivial things alike all forgotten as this red-skinned baby with a head full of hair fought for breath.

Nothing else mattered.

Not even that panic-inducing moment during Emma's delivery when a wave of something caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, the lights blowing out with the power of it, encasing the room in darkness for a moment before the back-up generator kicked in, all while a stream of no _no_ NO ran through his head.

"Probably just a blown fuse," the doctor had said, sending one of the nurses out to check before telling Emma she needed to give him one big push.

Neal had his doubts. About the blown fuse. _Not_ the pushing.

He had felt that sort of power before though. It haunted his dreams at night.

He looked at Emma and wondered. Stupidly, he realized, because which one of them, really, was the more likely culprit here? _Her?_ Or the kid that had grown up in a place known as the Enchanted Forest, called the Dark One his father, and spent lifetimes on a magical island and hopping between worlds?

Something must have rubbed off. A thought that made his stomach twist up in knots because what kind of horrors could he have possibly passed onto his son?

He had thought (or maybe just hoped) that he had left that shit behind.

But just as quickly as the thought entered his head, the ice freezing his veins melted, thawed by that healthy, powerful wail piercing the room, announcing Porter's arrival. Everything fell away. All those scary, panic inducing thoughts getting chased away by something wonderful and all-consuming and so much more important.

 _Love._

Pure, untampered _love._

"Can you see?" asked Emma, voice hoarse with a mixture of nervous anticipation. "Is he alright?"

He smoothed back damp, blonde hair, leaning down to kiss her forehead, whispering near her ear as his eyes remained fixed on the tiny crying miracle in the middle of a swarm of doctors and nurses.

"He's perfect, baby," he told her, the words threatening to catch on a lump in his throat.

She strained in the bed, trying to see, and Neal did his best to help her up, but the delivery had left her weak and too many people were moving back and forth, blocking her view, as their son had a wipe down and a quick check-up. He had a great pair of lungs though, his piercing cry filling the room.

"What do you see?" Emma finally asked, giving up and falling heavily back onto her pillow.

Neal peered through the masses.

"I see hair," he told her, "he has lots and lots of dark brown hair."

Emma choked out a teary laugh.

"Just like his dad then."

If possible the lump in his throat grew larger and he murmured, "The poor thing."

It took a few more minutes of cleaning and doctor-like things while Neal expressed how beautifully she had done and how proud he was of her, before they finally brought Porter over, passing him carefully into Emma's arms.

"Look at you," said Emma, a big, loving smile on her face, a finger delicately tracing his nose and chin, as if trying to test exactly how real he was. "You beautiful baby boy."

"Perfect," he agreed. Neal gently kissed her forehead and then Porter's and added, quite significantly, " _Thank you_."

Neal had always known love was easy.

But then he had heard Porter cry and his heart filled.

Love _was_ easy.

Motivating.

 _Inspiring._

But not just in the way it pushed him in his attempts to give Emma, and now their son, a better life. And not just by finding jobs and apartments and bringing in enough money to survive. Though obviously those things remained a top priority. But he wanted to be better too, becoming the sort of person that Porter could be proud of some day.

Love was easy.

And it would be the easiest, most challenging thing he ever did.

x-x-x-x-x

Love was real.

And like she said: Real was terrifying.

The kind of terrifying that accompanied realizations like, maybe, Emma actually wanted Neal around.

And it hadn't grown out of some ridiculous thing like _need_ either. He'd taught her enough by then that Emma could have probably made it on her own without making another ridiculous mistake like forget to check the backseat of a car before she stole it.

So she didn't need him. She just liked him.

Only, _maybe,_ she _had_ kind of needed him because one silly, off-hand comment about young love from a complete stranger and Emma just froze, mid-con, blown away by someone putting words to the one thing she had refused to even think about.

(Because, again, that would have made it real.)

Neal had kissed her, mouth full of food and grinning, and Emma swatted at him, smile just as wide as he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

"I miss that," the woman at the next table had said, a wistful look on her face, "being young and in love."

Emma blinked owlishly, desperately trying to fathom why the woman would say _that_ , half-forgetting that she needed to follow up Neal excusing himself with a dramatic phone call that would send her fleeing the restaurant in tears. Her phone went unanswered. Because love. That was just ridiculous. She didn't … did she?

She never left and Neal had returned, sitting back down at the table rather than fake-chasing after her, concern written all over his features.

(They had to do dishes to pay for a meal they couldn't afford.)

"Sorry," she had murmured later, when they had returned to the safety of the bug.

"Don't worry about it," he said easily. "Probably one of our stupider plans anyway. Too much face time."

"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly, content with letting him think that.

 _Easier._

Because love was terrifying.

And not because she needed him.

She had already established that she could do just fine on her own. Maybe even better. If she took feelings out of the mix anyway.

(Which not having him around would do.)

Emma just didn't want to.

She liked having this other person around and she liked the way he made her feel, like she could do anything. Maybe even this love thing.

She didn't dare say it, of course. That would be ridiculous.

But he made her laugh and knew just what to say so that she didn't get stuck inside her own stupid head. He came up with these ridiculous schemes and actually had the guts to pull them off. But when things didn't work out quite like he wanted them to, he'd just shake it off, like it didn't even matter.

Because he had faith. Faith that everything would work out just the way it was supposed to.

Emma had never understood that. Still didn't. But she more than admired him for it.

And then everything nearly got pulled out from under her.

(Just like she knew it would. Because that's just how the world worked.)

Suddenly all those walls she had built seemed irrelevant. They came tumbling down, the words bursting from her lips, words that she had let sit there for weeks, waiting to be said, Emma carefully filtering her thoughts and speech, worried that she might do something ridiculous and say, "Can you pass the chips, and, by the way, I love you."

It terrified her. Saying _it_. Those three little words. She'd felt comfortable enough with their relationship, had known exactly where they stood and could _feel_ that they coexisted on pretty even terms despite the lack of defining words, things like 'girlfriend' and 'husband' only getting thrown out there in the midst of a con. But even then saying it had paled in comparison to the thought of _not_ saying it and losing Neal because he suddenly felt noble. And stupid.

Because Neal loved selflessly. The idiot.

She had to force blankets and food on him and every other night, before things had changed, they had argued over whether or not it was actually his turn in the backseat. He had a job he hated and insisted it didn't matter even though it made him miserable and before that he had nearly walked away from Tallahassee so nothing would happen to her.

But they were partners, really, and, if anything, Emma thought having a partner meant that you didn't have to do things on your own anymore. And Emma liked that. The having someone.

She had fallen for Neal bit by bit, without really realizing it. No effort involved. Well, until her head had joined the party anyway and then _letting_ herself love him turned into bit of a spectacle. Probably the hardest, most terrifying thing she'd ever done.

Things with her son progressed much the same. Worse even, because it felt inevitable that she would lose him, if only because giving him up seemed like the only way she could do right by him.

She'd been so very wrong about that.

Loving Neal empowered her. It made her stronger and gave her back things she had lost to the tests of time. Things like hope and faith and trust. And it had even given her something she'd never felt before because no one had bothered to love her and she had certainly never felt it for anyone in turn. Love had simply become a legend, the thing of fairytales. That elusive thing that couldn't possibly exist and she most definitely didn't believe in.

But love was very real.

She could feel it.

Like, _seriously._

Everything hurt. This terrible aching pain in places Emma would swear hadn't even existed before today but _fuck_ did she know about them now.

She tried shifting and pillows and even standing before giving up because obviously she would just have to suffer in this uncomfortable hell _forever._ It'd be nice though, if she could find just one position she could tolerate so that she could focus on the breast feeding lady because apparently she had a lot of important rules and tips and even, potentially, _more_ discomfort and soreness that she needed to know about.

(Now obviously, Porter was worth every pain-filled, uncomfortable second but _come on_.)

Emma's frustration ended though when they wheeled her son back in, Neal following dutifully behind as Porter wailed unhappily. She sent an accusing look at the nurses and then Neal, who merely shook his head.

(She had insisted that, if he actually wanted her to sleep, Neal had to watch Porter like a hawk.)

"Someone's hungry," he explained.

Ah.

"Hey, handsome," greeted Emma as the nurse passed Porter into her arms. He fussed a bit, both had just taken a long nap, and she smiled lovingly when he gave a big yawn for such a tiny little thing. Neal settled into a chair next to the bed and then Emma tried her hand at this breastfeeding thing.

"Weird," she said, scrunching her nose a good time later when Porter finally latched on. She fretted a bit when the nurse left the room, but eventually relaxed when it seemed like she and the baby would do just fine on their own.

(And relaxed, she supposed, would have to take the place that comfortable formerly occupied.)

"I still can't get over how tiny he is?"

Neal chuckled, teasing. "I'm blown away by all that hair to be honest."

Emma rolled her eyes before sobering. "We can do this though? Take care of something this small?"

Neal made a face, as if it would be nothing. "Course," he said. "He'll be worth it."

Emma smiled softly and turned her attention back to Porter, her heart warm and full. She could have never imagined loving someone so much. Falling for Neal had taken her by surprise, sure, and sometimes she still found herself blown away by the intensity of it. How just seeing him could make her feel better or how easily he made her laugh or how he had this ability to push and challenge her, showing her how to test limits, giving her faith and hope, and taking her on this ridiculous journey that she could have never done on her own.

But that love, strong and passionate and empowering as it was, paled in comparison to the depth of what she felt for her child. Love that was protective and fierce and all-encompassing, inspiring and motivating her, and suddenly she couldn't help _but_ wonder how she could have ever thought _this_ wouldn't be enough.

It was _more_ than, really.

Porter was this tiny little wisp of a thing that she had carried around with her for nine months. He had Neal's ridiculous hair and her chin and this button of a nose and looking at him, seeing the pair of them mixed together in something they created, just filled her.

Filled her with a love that was terrifying, absolutely wonderful, and she knew it would never, ever waver.

How could it? Not when she had _so_ much of it that it threatened to overflow, filling her and spilling out.

Yeah, love was absolutely terrifying. Especially because it forced her to worry about something other than herself. It had taken her awhile to figure that part out, but once she'd started Emma had found it impossible to turn off. Suddenly she had so many new things to worry about. Everything Neal did (and Porter now) she felt. Because when they hurt, she hurt. And when they cried, she'd tear up too.

But that old worry. That single thought that had haunted her for months and months, the idea that just loving her son couldn't possibly be enough? Ridiculous. It was so much more than enough. It was everything. And it would drive and push her and motivate her because Porter would _never_ , ever feel the same neglect that his parents had felt. She wouldn't let him.

Love was terrifying and oh, so very real.

And yeah, it was so much more than enough.

* * *

Thanks for reading everyone and a big thank you to **steelneena** and **maressaonce** for leaving such lovely reviews!

 **Next Chapter:** Growing Pangs


	9. Growing Pangs

**Chapter Nine: Growing Pangs**

Considering the excellent health of both mother and baby (and some not-so subtle prodding from the hospital staff), budget trumped nerves and Emma and Neal took the earliest possible discharge. But in preparation for their very first night on their own as new parents, Emma had asked countless questions of any doctor, nurse, or supposed professional that came in and out of their hospital room, determined to prepare for every possible scenario. She received multiple demonstrations of swaddling and diaper changing techniques, along with a how-to on properly installing their car seat (she had managed to get the nurse that had wheeled her out to the curb to put the damn thing in a total of five times, shushing Neal whenever he tried to jump in with the know-how). She read pamphlets on what to do in emergencies and how to diagnose various ailments, Neal eventually prying the things out of her hands when she worriedly tried to diagnose Porter with whooping cough (but she stood by the fact that she had heard a cough and not a gurgle). Emma had even asked about proper baby protocol in freak-weather related scenarios (because they lived in Florida - home of the hurricane and unbearable heat waves and _clearly_ she should have never teased Neal when he had wanted to outrun Omar).

Not that it mattered how many questions she so obsessively asked because _nothing_ could have prepared them for the exhaustive work topped with complete lack of sleep that went into caring for a newborn.

Now admittedly, it had started as something somewhat self-induced. Porter slept and she and Neal just sort of stared, completely awe-struck as they took him in because arguably they had never seen anything more peaceful and precious.

And so absolutely fragile.

Emma desperately wanted to protect him. From _everything._

She started her new crusade right away, tiredly cleaning and scrubbing every reachable surface while directing Neal to fix and upgrade anything that they could upgrade and fix, determinedly trying to combat the germs and dangers she had stupidly allowed to take over their deathtrap of an apartment. She even apologized to Neal, obviously sorry that she had ever gotten on his case about nesting.

But even then Emma had to worry about a killer even more silent than tiny, microscopic germs - sleep.

"He could stop breathing," said Emma, shaky hands fiddling with the baby monitor long after they had settled on their mattress. A needless task considering they shared a room with Porter. "We wouldn't even know."

"Except you'll wake yourself up in an hour just to check on him and he'll wake up hungry ten minutes after that," Neal murmured, gentle fingers slipping the monitor out of her tight grip. "So sleep. While you can."

And Emma supposed that, yeah, she should because sleep really had become this strange, elusive thing. Well. Until all their wonder and worries officially faded away into pure exhaustion.

Oh, about two days in.

And then they just started catching short cat naps whenever they could because while it certainly seemed like Porter spent most of his time sleeping, he also did it in snatches and definitely not on the night-to-morning pattern Emma and Neal would have preferred.

He did this, the sleeping, between lots and lots of crying.

Fledging parents as they were, they eventually managed to learn the difference between a hungry wail and a wet cry and a _something is seriously wrong_ whine. But in the beginning his cries started out as nothing more than a cryptic code, impossible for anyone to decipher without the necessary key. Which Emma had definitely not received instinctively (despite all those stupid assurances that she would). Sometimes it just seemed like Porter cried for no reason at all and this always made Emma want to cry herself because no amount of bouncing or cooing could get him to stop and she just really wished he would.

Amazingly though, Porter would also do this thing where he would screech angrily and then stop, like instantly, as soon as Emma or Neal bundled him into their arms. Because _apparently_ he just missed them. So much so that he couldn't even seem to stand the thought of being left alone (which included anything that involved them stepping out of view of his limited vision). And after Neal returned to work, it made getting the necessary chores done, like trying to put something together for dinner, an especially difficult task because when Port got like this no amount of talking or maneuvering would satisfy him as he desperately wanted to do nothing more than cuddle in the safety of her arms, staring up at her with wide, now-content eyes. It forced Emma to abandon everything, settling into the orange recliner (the mahogany rocking chair, even with pillows and blankets, still a bit too hard for her ongoing recovery), gently rubbing circles on his back and humming (the closest she would ever get to singing), until his eyes drifted shut, resting peacefully until she showed any signs of putting him in his crib, jump-starting the whole process all over again. Which absolutely baffled Emma, particularly when he'd fuss for everyone but _her_ (sometimes he'd even squirm restlessly for Neal until he reluctantly passed Porter back to her), because _how_ could he find her any more comforting-slash-comfortable than Neal or his crib.

All the crying didn't exactly endear them to their neighbors whose new favorite phrase to shout through the extra-thin walls and floorboards became variations of, "Shut that thing the fuck up." And this only made Porter wail harder, briefly causing Emma to swell with pride because obviously that would show those jackasses. But then, of course, she had to go through the process of calming Porter down and some days she just really hated their shithole apartment in their sucky building in their stupid run-down neighborhood.

The baby seemed to have an up and down effect on her and Neal's relationship too. Well. Not Porter specifically. More the lack of sleep, really. Hormones might have played an unfortunate role in things as well - sometimes Emma just burst into tears for no reason at all and Emma _rarely_ cried. And certainly never without an actual excuse.

Another contributing factor? Neal had returned to work not even a week in, picking up extra hours not long after that, working over-time whenever he could. And a tiny, clearly irrational part of Emma worried that he only spent so much time working so that he could get away from her and Port. And she thought this even when logically she knew that he really only meant to earn some extra cash, eager to make up for the paychecks lost during her maternity leave. Which she hated because Neal shouldn't have to work so hard while she did nothing. Except she did just as much, really. Because damn, as much as she loved him, Porter was a lot of work too.

(She was such a fucking mess.)

It didn't help that they couldn't break the tension like they usually did. Because no sex.

Not that either of them had the energy.

But they bickered, a lot more now, and over stupid shit. Like who should do what chores and what shows to watch. Even breastfeeding. Because apparently Neal fancied himself some sort of expert.

"Maybe you're doing it wrong," he suggested as Emma tried switching sides, thinking that somehow Porter simply preferred her right to her left.

(She was tired, okay? And something about breastfeeding and the hormones made it that much worse. To the point that Neal, unhelpful as he clearly was, had to get up with her in case she passed out with Porter smack dab in the middle of a feeding.)

"How many ways do you think there are to do it?" snapped Emma and she realized later that, maybe, Neal only wanted to help and that he hadn't meant it as some sort of accusation. But it still felt like one. "I don't think he's hungry."

And it only got worse because they barely saw each other anymore. Neal would get home and Emma, exhausted from taking care of Porter all day (and therefore in desperate need of a baby break) would pass him off to his father before disappearing into the bedroom for a nap or the bathroom for a long, much overdue shower. And Neal (who was just as tired himself due to things like work and traffic and people and no sleep the night before), would collapse down next to her as soon as the baby settled and that, clearly, left no time for talking with each other.

It marked a big change for them after a year of practically living on top of each other. And, as stupid as it sounded, Emma _missed_ Neal.

(And she couldn't tell him any of this because he was just trying to support his family.)

Eventually, when Emma had thought months and months must have passed, Joy and Maya dropped by, returning from their vacation and announcing that no, they had barely reached the middle of December. It made her feel all sorts of pathetic, but at least Porter finally got his first set of visitors (because angry neighbors didn't count).

"What's he do?" Maya asked with all the innocence of a five-year-old, peering curiously over the crib.

"Cry, mostly," said Emma drily, pushing her crooked glasses up her nose and, as if on cue, Porter let out a rather loud wail.

Joy laughed and then waved Emma off when she tried to push off her and Neal's pathetic mattress. "Take a break, honey."

Despite her typically sound judgment (Porter had never actually experienced anyone _but_ his trusty mother and father holding him before), Emma let Joy take care of the baby. And then, when he didn't cry out for her, promptly fell asleep while Joy did so.

But that, surprisingly enough, didn't even mark her worst infraction that day. After she woke up, not even an hour later, Porter hungrily demanding her attention before his own nap, Emma unloaded everything on poor Joy, head collapsing on top of arms she had folded across the patio-slash-kitchen table.

"It's just so _hard,_ " Emma moaned, and Joy gave her a gentle squeeze of the shoulder as she passed, pulling something out of the fridge, the sound of cartoons carrying in from the next room. "He never sleeps, except that's, like, all he does and I'm exhausted. All. The. Time. And he hates me, he has to, because when he's not _sleeping,_ he's just crying and I never know what he wants."

Speaking of ... Porter hit his cue _again_ and after spotting his favorite blue blanket draped over the back of their stupid orange recliner, she grabbed it, tucking it dutifully around him until he stopped fussing, collapsing heavily back into her chair, ignoring Joy's amused smile and the cup of tea now set out for her. "Like _how_ am I supposed to know if he's really happy or if he's just sick of trying to tell me something? And there's like this _humongous_ rift between me and John. We barely see each other and we never talk and I miss him. And I don't know how to keep doing _this_ if he ..."

Emma couldn't even bring herself to say it, but Joy made her and she bit her lip, whispering, " _leaves."_

(And yeah, saying it out loud, it _did_ sound ridiculous.)

"Drink," was all Joy said, nodding to the mug and her voice was firm enough that Emma immediately took a tentative sip and then a bigger gulp because despite not being a tea person, there was something oddly soothing about it.

"First of all," continued Joy, all annoyingly calm and rational. "You're doing fine and you'll see it. I promise. You've just got to get past these next few weeks. Because Porter _is_ happy. You'd _know_ if he wasn't."

Emma opened her mouth to protest because _how,_ but she didn't even get the words out, Joy cutting her off, insisting, "You'd _know._ And finally, don't be ridiculous. That man isn't gonna leave. You just need to grab his attention. Tell him how you feel."

She snorted and at Joy's unimpressed look, Emma added a somewhat petulant, "I can't."

(Not without sending Neal down an undeserved guilt trip.)

"You can," insisted Joy, "because I bet he feels the same way. Here - tell you what. Take Saturday night. Go out. Treat yourselves to an actual dinner. I'll watch the baby. Me and Maya."

Emma really should have protested. But as much as she loved Porter, a few completely baby-free hours sounded far too tempting.

Not that they were baby-free.

Emma had never actually spent any time away from Porter before and so leaving turned into a whole thing. She didn't want to let go of him, for one, and then she kept remembering things that she thought Joy should know. Well after they had left. So she spent half the car ride to the restaurant sending her instructive texts. And over ridiculous things too. Like how he preferred his blue blanket (and his mother) when he fussed until finally Joy returned with the fact that she was turning her phone off now so just relax.

(And _how,_ exactly, was Emma supposed to do that because, you know, what if there was an emergency?)

But when it came down to it, despite the crying and lack of sleep and the smelly diapers, they found Porter well and truly enchanting. He had this natural curiosity and the simplest of things (her and Neal most of all) held his attention, entrancing him. Caring for him and worrying if Port had everything he needed had become an all-consuming job, taking over everything else in their life, including _them,_ but watching him take in the world - new sounds and sights and smells - was this amazing thing Emma couldn't get enough of.

(She was probably missing all of it.)

As if sensing as much, Neal grabbed her hand, threading their fingers together and it was the first time in weeks they had really touched without something sticky _somewhere_ and that was enough for Emma to actually, kind of, relax for a bit.

At least until she realized that she had nothing to say. _Well._ She had things to say, of course, but only of the baby-related variety and Joy had strictly told them that they should probably take this time to _not_ talk about anything Porter related.

(What exactly had they talked about before again?)

They didn't go anywhere fancy. That had never been them and anyway, that would just mean stepping out of their price range. But they found somewhere nice enough with food they would actually like and would, _maybe,_ serve as something substantial because neither of them had actually managed to start _and_ finish cooking a meal since what Neal affectionately referred to as _b-_ day.

(At least nothing that didn't involve the microwave.)

"Emma," Neal said later, after they had settled on two house specials and she had admitted that she had nothing interesting to say. "I want to hear about the baby."

"You do?" she asked with extra care because obviously she had never heard a sentence more difficult to interpret than this should-be straight-forward statement.

"Yeah," said Neal easily. "I miss so much, stuck at work all day, y'know? I worry, sometimes, that I'm missing out on too much. Things I won't be able to get back."

A part of her really just wanted to tell Neal that he should just quit then. Or take a break, at least, because it just didn't seem worth it. She didn't, of course, because he _was_ trying and she appreciated that (and yeah, okay, they _needed_ the money or whatever), and so she cocked her head, pretending to give this some deep and serious thought.

"Well, he's very energetic, y'know," she offered glibly, fingers picking at the bread on her plate, "he gives me quite the work-out and he's very good at snubbing the neighbors."

Neal snorted, smiling widely, satisfying Emma enough to continue on.

"And have you heard the way he babbles on?" Aside from the trademark cries, grunts and gurgles and tiny little squeals had become very common sounds in their household. "He obviously has a lot to say. And he is absolutely in love with my hair."

She kept it pulled back in a ponytail most of the time, but Porter still found something to grab at, his tiny fingers getting tangled up in blonde, tugging with apparent fascination as Emma gently pulled at his fingers, trying her best to talk him into letting go.

Neal reached across the table and flicked at a blonde curl. "Well, who wouldn't?"

They joked like this for a time, settling into a comfortable silence when their food finally arrived, both taking the time to enjoy their meal because it was arguably the most decent thing they had eaten in a while (maybe ever). It gave Emma plenty of time to gather up her courage until, finally, the words just burst out of her.

"I miss you," she said, wincing, immediately regretting the words because they just made her sound needy and desperate.

Neal, however, merely responded with a simple, "I know. I miss you too."

"And I get it, really," she admitted because they _had_ talked about this before. Well, argued really, and she didn't want to do that again. "But it still feels like we're doing it wrong. Tallahassee, I mean, and this family thing. Because what good is building a life together if we're not actually _together,_ y'know?"

"Then we'll make more of an effort," Neal promised, the words simple enough but weighted down with his intent. "We'll find the time. Make it if we have to."

The funny thing? Emma actually believed him.

They started the very next day with a road trip. Well, a drive, really, and talk about a hassle.

Having a baby meant, for one, they couldn't just get out of bed, grab a bite to eat and then get in the car to drive all willy-nilly like they used to. In fact, a plan as simple as that became oddly ambitious once you had a baby.

Porter needed to be fed and burped and then dressed and changed. He needed a diaper bag and fresh bottles, though if he got hungry he would probably just force them to pull over because Porter had already decided that he preferred one thing over the other. They needed his favorite toys and blanket and they should probably stuff the stroller in the trunk. And, of course, Emma wanted to bring the camera for Port's first road trip - an event more than worthy of going in the baby book she dutifully kept, starting with ultrasounds and hospital bracelets and pictures of his first night, Emma's more sentimental side pushing her to capture and record every precious moment.

Finally, they had to contend with actually getting Porter into the car.

(And then, if they got really slow about things, a repeat of steps one through four.)

Now Emma loved the bug, but without easy access to the back it was not the more opportune thing to have when you wanted to lug around a fussy newborn. But eventually they managed to get him buckled in, all nice and secure (and, thankfully, without hitting his all-too fragile head along the way), and well into the afternoon, when they had checked everything off their list, they finally picked a direction and drove.

For, oh, about twenty minutes when it became abundantly clear that Porter needed a change of diaper. And so clearly this whole thing had turned out to be a giant disaster because what, exactly, had they accomplished, but Neal simply laughed it off as he pulled into the parking lot of a local dinner.

"It's new, at least," he noted, unbuckling the car seat, taking Port out with it.

Emma smiled tightly as she dug out the diaper bag from underneath the stroller, whisking Porter away to a bathroom while Neal grabbed them a table. They settled in across from him a short while later, Emma trying not to smile too proudly when people awed at the cute baby wiggling his legs beneath his blanket, cooing at all the new things assaulting his senses.

"Everything alright?" he asked when she opened her menu and when she raised an eyebrow in confusion, he noted, "You're quiet."

Emma shrugged. "Just tired, I guess."

Neal nodded in understanding. "We can head back after lunch."

"I don't want to."

"Well, we should probably order something," he said, scrunching his nose, "like a coffee at least."

But Emma shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

"Okay?" said Neal carefully.

Emma fussed with Porter a bit, cooing at him, reminding him that yes, she and Dada were still there despite the obvious lack of home. She did this and ignored Neal's intense look until she just couldn't stand it anymore.

"I don't know what's wrong, okay?" Emma snapped defensively and just as the poor waitress happened to arrive at their table too. She offered to come back but suddenly Emma was starving and so she quickly stopped her, ordering a grilled cheese while Neal got the club sandwich. That, maybe, should have ended the conversation but Neal only offered her another pointed look.

"You don't know what's wrong, _but ..."_

"It's just," she shrugged, and tried something a bit more direct. "I think I do and then I get it and it doesn't help. Like last night. I thought I just needed a breather, y'know, to get away from the baby for a bit, but then I just spent the whole night missing him. And today, I thought it would be nice to just get out of the apartment, but really, it's _just_ been exhausting."

"Em, baby, it's only been a few weeks."

"I _know,"_ she said quite dramatically.

"We just had a major life change," he continued and Emma hummed an acknowledgment, though without the enthusiasm of her previous statement. "It's gonna take some time to adjust and fall back into a rhythm."

"I know," Emma agreed quickly.

Neal raised a brow. "Do you?"

She nodded but Neal's knowing (and completely infuriating) look remained.

"I just," she sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."

Neal nodded and grinned like she had just told some sort of joke. "Me either."

Emma rolled her eyes because _great._ Neal hadn't quite finished though. "We must be doing _something_ right though."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, look at him," said Neal, nodding at Porter who was staring at them (and everything, really) with those giant doe eyes of his.

Emma smiled.

"He is pretty great, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Neal agreed softly, "but it's more than that. He can barely stand to be out of our sight. That's gotta mean something."

"We provide him with the means to survive," she said drily.

"Sure, but that's like only twenty percent of the time and that other ten percent, y'know, when he's not sleeping," Neal twisted his features in mock thought, "and sometimes when he is ... well, he just likes us, doesn't he?"

Emma gave it a moment of thought. "I guess he does."

Neal nodded. "And I know we've still got a few kinks to work out till we find a better balance. But it's gonna happen. This is just a hurdle we've got to struggle through and it's _okay_ if we're struggling, Em."

"Yeah," Emma agreed, somewhat reluctantly. It made sense, she knew that, but she couldn't quite bring herself to _believe_ it.

"It is," Neal insisted, reaching across the table, playfully grabbing his son's foot who flailed happily. "I love Port to bits, but he's hard work. He's gonna grow out of it though. Bring us whole new sets of challenges. Amaze us. We just," he paused, obviously taking the time to choose his next words carefully, "we can't worry so much about _how_ much time we have. But more what we do with it, y'know?"

Emma smiled tightly. She supposed she could work on some things. Like the whole running off to nap the moment Neal got home thing.

"We're gonna figure this out," he promised her.

And, once more, Emma believed him.

* * *

Thanks for reading everyone and thanks to **steelneena** for leaving such a kind review!

First off, I forgot to add this the last time, but Porter was officially born on **November 28, 2002**.

Also, I got a comment on ao3 and I figured that I would carry over my reply in case anyone was curious about why I ultimately decided to use a name other than Henry (it's a bit long-winded, sorry!):

 _From a character perspective, a lot of the reasons why I ultimately went down the new-name route were laid out in chapter 6 so I won't bore you with them again. But I'll add that personally, particularly as I got further along in the writing process, I did feel it was important to distinguish between a child raised by Regina and a child raised by Emma and Neal. Because, and this probably won't help, I do kinda see them as different characters in some ways._

 _Not completely, of course. A lot of his characteristics are just inherently that character, regardless of his name or who raised him. But those characteristics do present themselves differently because he's not growing up in a town where no one ages and his primary influences are Emma and Neal, who have different ways of looking at the world, different values, etc. And, given that they don't have to share custody with Regina or worry about stepping over any bounds, their approach to parenting means that Porter just wouldn't be able to get away with the stuff that Henry does in canon. Because they wouldn't let him. Not without consequences. And more importantly I think (though this might be my own issues with canon shining through) he won't have to. Which changes his role. Not to say that Porter is any less important. Once he's old enough, he'll have his own threads and plot points going forward. And that's in addition to the fact that he is and will remain, as they laid out in chapter 7, Emma and Neal's primary motivation. And all that is something that takes the story in some different and what I hope will be some interesting directions._

 _Finally, I'll geek out a moment, because Porter's name really grew on me (as you can see from this ridiculously long answer,) but ... Emma and Neal do use the nickname Port, which will play into the Argo/ship motif when it pops up. And when I looked it up later I found out that Porter actually means 'gatekeeper' which while unintended, I like to see as a bit of a nod to Henry's original role in season one as he was the one that brought Emma to Storybrooke (hero's journey, passing through the threshold, etc.). So there's that._

 **Next chapte** r: Karmic Reciprocation


	10. Karmic Reciprocation

**Chapter Ten: Karmic Reciprocation**

They missed Christmas.

Which, in the grand scheme of things, didn't seem like that big of a deal. Not really. Neal doubted that he and Emma would have ever even noticed if Joy and Maya hadn't stopped by, presents in hand, asking the obligatory, "How'd the holidays go?" sometime after the New Year had passed. And after a copious amount of blinking, a quick check of the date on his phone, and several stuttered excuses from Emma because she hadn't even thought to get Joy and Maya anything (though, to be fair, he and Emma hadn't even swapped gifts with each other), they exchanged a helpless sort of look, realizing that they officially had a batting record of zero for three. _Maybe_ they could give themselves a half-point for attempting Thanksgiving because they really had tried, but considering the fact that the holiday season probably served as one of the few perks that came with living a regular, crime-free life, Neal could, maybe, understand _why_ Emma got so hung up on the how-to's of normalcy from time to time.

Because their attempts at this whole _regular life_ thing? Kind of pathetic.

Neal _had_ done his best to keep his promise, both he and Emma putting forth a decent effort, trying harder to not let exhaustion turn into bickering so that they could actually enjoy the now rare quiet moments they had together. A part of that, they had realized, involved just finally accepting that sometimes putting off some chore or other to give into the ever-tempting pull of sleep was more than okay. And napping with Porter in the afternoons had become a regular part of their routine, particularly Emma's, and he would often return home to find them laid out in bed together, Emma's hand resting protectively on Port's stomach (she had far fewer reservations about falling asleep with the baby than he did - maybe because she slept still as a board while he had a history of thrashing when pulled too far under). It both warmed him and filled him with an ache, to the point that weekly road trips weren't enough anymore. So he swallowed back the fear of looking dispensable and asked for some time off.

(Stupidly, maybe, considering the mildly amused look that had graced his boss's face, eventually alerting Neal to the fact that he _probably_ would have gotten time off for the holidays anyway.)

They considered putting together a belated sort of holiday just to say they'd tried before they realized that neither of them actually identified with anything in particular. Neal hadn't celebrated a holiday since around fourteen or so (because who, exactly, would he have shared the experience with), while Emma had always just gone along with whatever her foster family of the time had done (a mish-mash of experiences that included everything from Christmas to Hanukkah to Kwanzaa to absolutely squat). Money remained a major concern, frustrating Neal until a needlessly stressed Emma, who had taken to frantically flipping through ads in the effort to find something suitable for Joy and Maya, reminded him that she hated the idea of giving things out of apparent obligation anyway.

"Gifts should have meaning," Emma told him, a stark reminder of the words that she had used when he'd tried giving her a chain to replace the string she kept her swan pendant on (his feeble attempt to mark a year together). "Not some meaningless trinket you hand out because you feel like you have to."

Neal's face twisted in confusion. "So you _don't_ want to get Port anything?"

"Of course I do," Emma said, her tone very clearly adding a silent _don't be ridiculous,_ "but when we can afford it and it's just because, y'know?" A beat and then quite practically, "Besides. He's barely a month old. He doesn't even know to expect anything."

Even though Neal, guided by emotions and tradition, couldn't quite wrap his head around the concept, he also knew that it made sense in that strict, logical way Emma often wielded. That didn't necessarily keep him from stopping off at the toy store one day after work, picking up a stuffed dog (money wasn't _so_ tight that they couldn't afford one measly toy), silent adding the velvet-soft, floppy eared puppy to their son's things _just because._ Emma noticed, of course, raising a brow in silent amusement, but didn't dare chide him. Not when Porter, tiny fingers stretched out to grip a nearby ear even in his sleep, seemed so obviously taken with it.

Still. Gifts aside, it all seemed like a piss poor acknowledgment to their son's very first holiday. They wanted Porter to have traditions. They just had to decide on what, exactly, those traditions should be.

"But what about when you were a kid?" Emma asked as she worked on folding the laundry they had finally gotten around to after a few weeks of neglect (it was a bit of an ordeal, even without a baby, dragging all their crap down to the laundry-mat and back). Neal, meanwhile, had Porter perched on his shoulder where he gently patted his back in the effort to produce the necessary baby-burp.

Neal had to think for a minute, sorting through a long list of bad memories, until he could tug out a good one.

"Yule," he said before Emma's blank look prompted him to add further clarification. "Winter Solstice."

"That's," Emma furrowed her brow, "Pagan?"

"We raised sheep," Neal said, moving Porter to his other shoulder and breezing past the unfamiliar word. "Shepherds. Y'know, _farmers._ We're big on the seasons."

"Oh." Emma took a moment, seemingly to think over this new piece of information, but if anything she only seemed _more_ baffled by it. "You raised sheep?"

"Yeah." He shrugged his free shoulder. "What did you think I did?"

Emma imitated his shrug. "Less raise sheep. _More_... Lurking around convenience stores, making trouble."

Neal snorted, his amused laugh at the image of his fourteen-year-old self doing nothing but swanning off and starting shit briefly capturing Port's attention, who started to squirm restlessly until Neal gave him a brief reprieve, nuzzling his nose against a soft cheek before perching him on his other shoulder, resuming their quest.

"The life of crime came later. I'll have you know my formative years were spent being the model son." And, when Emma gave him a disbelieving look, he added, somewhat defensively, "I was."

Emma gave an amused hum before her features shifted, turning into something a bit more serious. "Is that something you _want_ to celebrate now though?"

Neal couldn't exactly say. In his desperate attempts to outrun his father and Pan and fucking Neverland, he had refused to cling to memories, suppressing them and stomping them out and, overall, just doing his very best to forget they ever existed. Mostly succeeding too, until those unfortunate moments when they bubbled up, haunting his sleep in the form of nightmares. Letting the good memories go simply became a natural side effect of that. A coping mechanism. Because thinking of the good reminded him of what he had lost and that _just_ really fucking hurt.

Unfortunately, at best, that left him with half-truths wrapped in the bitter aftertaste of bad experiences and what kind of legacy did that make? He couldn't even afford to give his son his fake last name.

Which didn't bother him. Well, somewhat, maybe. Okay, _obviously._ But it didn't matter in the long run, he didn't think, so long as they did better by Porter. He would have family and a home and love. The childhood his parents didn't get to have. And if he had all that then what did his and Emma's past really matter anyway?

Clean slate.

"I think we should find something that's just ours," he said carefully and he was quickly rewarded, Emma offering him her most brilliant smile, something Neal couldn't help but return as Porter finally let out an agreeable burp.

They gave it a lot of thought. They even considered adopting the recently passed Twelfth Night as their very own holiday of choice before dovetailing into something completely original because why not.

"We should use it as a way to celebrate how far we've come," Emma suggested over a library book dedicated to child-centric holiday traditions, "and to remind us of what we want to do."

Neal liked the idea save for one little thing "Most people use the New Year for that, don't they?"

"Yeah," said Emma somewhat distastefully as she absently flipped a page, "and how many people _actually_ stick out their resolutions?"

Fair point.

"But we could, maybe, knock something off _Operation Hope_ ," she continued, fingers twitching at the last word.

(A far cry from the near-violent flinch it had first inspired.)

So _the_ day, which they had decided would fall on the second Saturday of January (because it was the closest), actually started with careful consideration of their fridge and the realization that they hadn't actually bothered to add all that much to it since Emma had pinned up Porter's first ultrasound.

Well, nothing immediately attainable anyway.

"Because we have everything we could ever want," said Neal in the effort to put a positive spin on things.

Emma's lips inched upwards, forming a half smile, but her eyes remained pinned to the still mostly-white door and Neal knew that she wanted the same things he did. Because he wanted better for Porter. He wanted to give his son a life of comfort and safety and love, where dreams came easily, becoming almost frivolous. Not in a material sort of way necessarily, but if his parents had longed for the things that most people took for granted, then Porter should never ever have to.

"Okay so, maybe, in place of the obligatory gift exchange we've already ruled out, we find something we can both use. Like a couch for the living room," Neal suggested, "you're always complaining about the recliner."

Emma seemed to like the idea, though she had a suggestion of her own, looking at him with, almost pleading eyes. "Can it be a bed? I'd really like an actual bed."

Neal let out a light laugh. "I think we can manage that."

They went to the mall, finding the nearest non-brand department store, something that would probably have cheaper prices. Not as cheap as a garage sale, no, but when Neal had tried suggesting they wait one out, Emma pointedly drew a line in the sand and that line, she said, started with used beds. But they both agreed that they didn't need anything fancy and they already had the mattress, they just wanted something with a bit more support. So they found the first double on sale and, really, if they tilted their heads and squinted, it kind of looked like it might go with Porter's mahogany baby stuff. They didn't care if it didn't though. Because it was a bed.

Naturally, after they handed over the obligatory cash (a hefty chunk of change as far as Neal was concerned), Emma immediately began to show signs of guilt.

"We need to go to the toy store," she announced, tone leaving no room for argument as she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him (well, led, considering she still had Porter's stroller to push) from the store.

(Completely unnecessary considering Neal wouldn't have protested.)

There remained a certain challenge, y'know, buying for a newborn who spent most of his time sleeping and crying. Neal would _secretly_ add stuffed animals to Porter's collection, but he refused to take to any of them like he had _Puppy._

Add this to the fact that he had only _just_ started smiling. Something that provided Neal with an endless well of delight after weeks and weeks spent trying to produce the elusive grin wondering, with a certain amount of worry, _why_ Porter refused to do this one little thing.

"The doctor said it takes a month or so," Emma had said, completely unconcerned (not even after all those days fretting over whether or not Port was happy). But then a month officially passed, robbing Emma of her practical excuse, and she joined Neal's efforts, making funny voices and trying games like peek-a-boo until finally Emma had simply peered over his crib to check on him after a rare night of nothing _but_ sleep and Porter rewarded her with the most brilliant toothless grin, face lighting up at just the sight of her, prompting Emma to excitedly wake him, Neal matching her enthusiasm (even if he had to squash his own disappointment at missing the official debut).

Naturally, after adding a picture to Porter's baby book, the flash turning the grin to startled tears, they both worked tirelessly to replicate it, testing all sorts of games and toys to see if any would cause him to light up with obvious joy. And so they discovered that Port almost always smiled at his mom and dad and would even do the same for little Maya when she'd peer curiously over his crib. He'd stare stonily at all toys that weren't _Puppy_ and preferred clapping games and music over peek-a-boo.

"He'll be five and we'll be deaf," commented Emma drily as she reluctantly returned a brightly colored toy to the shelf, Porter failing to show any interest.

"It's too bad I don't have my old guitar," Neal said without much thought, distracted as he fumbled with a plastic looking thing that had started flashing and making noises the moment he picked it up, the very busy thing successfully scaring Port into a fit of tears.

"You had a guitar?" Emma asked, her curiosity masked with her best motherly voice as she tried to use that and _Puppy_ to sooth Porter.

"Yeah," said Neal, directing them to a more age appropriate aisle. "For a little while there anyway. Wound up hawking it. Turns out street musician isn't as lucrative as it sounds."

"But you can play," said Emma, resigning herself to an afternoon of carrying Porter, lifting him out of the stroller and sighing in relief when he finally started to calm.

Neal shrugged. "Picked it up from watching a guy at a bar I worked at."

Emma gave him an impressed look as she rubbed soothing circles on a calming Porter's back. "Just watching."

"Well," said Neal drily, "he wasn't very good."

Emma dragged him out of the toy store then, ignoring his protests that they hadn't actually found anything yet. But Porter needed a change, for one, and apparently she wanted to go to one of his favored garage sales. And then, when they couldn't actually find one nearby, another three pawn shops until they found a used guitar. She bartered with the owner, driving down the price to something in the reasonable range considering it had its fair share of scratches on it and then, just like that, they were on their way home.

"I don't need this," Neal had tried telling her. Multiple times. But Emma merely shook her head.

"You can play for Port," she said, "he'll love it."

X-x-x-x-X

Emma was right.

After a minor catastrophe involving stray grease and an unfortunate burn (she very carefully treated Neal's hand, wrapping it in a generous amount of gauze after applying some kind of aloe-y _thing)_ they had a dinner full of fried chicken, mac-and-cheese, fries, and yams sprinkled with Lucky Charms followed by pumpkin pie and hot chocolate with cinnamon.

The theme? Their favorites (Neal's idea and okay, yes, obviously a much better one than spending all day slaving over some sort of expensive roast she'd probably burn).

Neal played for them, even with his injured hand ("It's not _that_ bad now," he had insisted, waving off her attempts to check it again), singing some tune that Emma didn't recognize while Porter watched entranced. He smiled and flailed his limbs about excitedly as soon as the strums of the guitar first started, something that switched to tears when the music hummed to a stop

This inevitably called for an encore, Emma gently swaying back and forth with him in the rocking chair until Porter drifted off to sleep, his eyes fluttering closed seemingly in spite of himself.

"Told you," Emma murmured, feeling quite pleased as they settled back onto their mattress for what she hoped would be one of their last nights sleeping on the floor. She flipped on her side to face him. "What song was that anyway?"

Neal acknowledged her with a distracted hum. "Just an old ballad."

Emma raised a brow.

"Mothers used to sing it," he explained, "to wish their children a safe return from war."

Emma blinked. "Children?"

"Soldiers," Neal scrunched his nose playfully, "same thing."

"I've never heard of something like that," she said, leaning forward and pressing her nose against his, a grin on her lips. "Another one of those sheep farmer things, I suppose."

"We're a strange bunch, us sheep farmers," he murmured, moving, nose nuzzling against her cheek. "Thank-you for the guitar."

"Hm," her eyes fluttered closed, "well, I was right, wasn't I? Porter liked it."

"But that wasn't why you bought it." She felt Neal grin. "Admit it. You caught the gift-giving bug."

"It wasn't a gift," she said and Neal lifted a brow, his amused expression annoyingly fixed. "It wasn't. We bought it together. You picked it out with me, paid for it, no wrapping paper was involved."

"Technicality," he murmured before capturing her lips in a kiss that Emma couldn't help but deepen, leading them down a tempting but dangerous road.

"I'm not cleared yet," she eventually gasped between kisses. Neal hummed an acknowledgment, even slowing down a bit, but he didn't stop kissing her, hand weaving its way into her hair, before nuzzling his nose against hers, forehead landing on her cheek. "Today was nice though."

"Not bad for a first time holiday," he acknowledged gauze free fingers playing with her hair, Neal having already removed the bandages before they had gone to bed because _apparently_ lack of pain also mean zero chance of infection.

"Yeah," agreed Emma, turning her head, letting her nose brush against his forehead, before moving down to nuzzle his cheek, "we did good."

More than, really. But she hadn't even meant that exactly. She had learned a handful of surprising things about Neal in the last few days, fitting into the ever-expanding picture that was Neal-slash-John-slash-Baelfire. Not that he was a complete mystery to her. Emma liked to think that she knew the really important things, but she also knew that he held a lot back, the vault concealing his past a good deal tighter than the one she had formerly used to lock up her feelings. So listening to him, watching him sprinkle in bits of information without much thought? She _liked_ that he had grown comfortable enough with her (or whatever held him back, she supposed) to finally do that.

"You know," he said, turning, bumping her nose, "there's one more thing we could do."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I told you. I'm not cleared yet."

Though she wouldn't mind, maybe, helping him out a bit because they hadn't really done anything in _forever_ and she missed it, the closeness. She had mentally gone through a list of where, exactly (because not with Porter just a handful of feet away), when she felt Neal shake, well, his nose, moving in a silent back-and-forth no.

"Not that. No. I was thinking about Joy and this room full of baby furniture she just gave us and where we'd probably be if she hadn't," Neal started, "and, well, that seems like the sort of karmic energy we should, maybe, release back into the world, doesn't it?"

Neal, she knew, actually believed in those sorts of things. And while Emma reluctantly believed in reciprocation (one of the reasons she hated meaningless gift exchanges), his thought process had one minor flaw.

"Joy already yelled at us for that, remember," she reminded him, "when we tried to pay for her and Maya's tickets at Adventureland."

And again when she had showed up with a couple of belated Christmas gifts because apparently Joy hadn't actually expected anything in return.

(Which had baffled Emma. Because why give them something to begin with then.)

But Neal hadn't meant that either apparently and when he told her what he _did_ mean Emma actually let out a rather loud snort, something that she desperately tried to muffle by burying her face in his shoulder so she wouldn't startle Port awake.

He _seriously_ wanted to do some sort of give-back, charity-service _thing_ in honor of the holidays. Or just because.

"We don't have anything to give," said Emma and, after their frivolous afternoon of bed and guitar shopping, they had even less. Neal, however, remained the eternal optimist.

"We have time," he told her.

Honestly? Even if they had started to settle into something a bit more structured with Porter, they still barely even had that. But Neal had that look about him. All fierce confidence and determination.

"You're really serious about this," Emma noted, squinting through the dark.

Neal cleared his throat, saying gruffly. "Port's gonna grow up one day and he's probably gonna ask us how we met –"

Emma cut him off, "Well, it's not like we're actually gonna tell him the truth."

"But that's not the only thing he's gonna ask, Em," said Neal. "He'll wanna know about my family and yours. All these things that we won't have good answers to. One day we'll have to say something though and when we do I want to be able to show him that we turned it around."

"We have," she murmured, biting her lip uncertainly because at least she thought they had.

" _Yes,_ " said Neal with a certain amount of weight before he continued, "but you said you didn't want us to settle either. Maybe this can be us not settling."

Emma offered a distracted nod and pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile because even though he had never given her any reason to think otherwise, it still kinda amazed her whenever he not only listened to her, but actually _showed_ her that he respected what she had to say (even when that thing involved her fumbling over her initial meaning, resulting in a pretty ridiculous fight). No one else ever had, really. Not her teachers and certainly not anyone in her ridiculous line of foster parents.

She still didn't really get the why's of it all. Like why this thing? And why now? And she definitely didn't believe in karma. But Neal kept trying, determined to get as much as he could out of this whole Tallahassee thing. Which Emma wanted. More than anything. So maybe they _could_ try this too. What could it hurt?

"Okay," she murmured, letting go of her grin as Neal broke into that giant trademark smile of his.

* * *

Thanks for reading everyone and thank you to steelneena for taking the time review!

Next Chapter: The First Argonaut


	11. The First Argonaut

**Chapter Eleven: The First Argonaut**

Neal had put some thought into the possibilities of what they could do service-wise well before his conversation with Emma, the idea of doing something charitable turning over in his head for days following their blank stares at _Operation Hope_ (though Emma's worries and seeing the miracle of Porter's birth had most definitely planted the seed). And while something like _this_ , whatever they wound up doing, wouldn't suddenly give them a different past with parents, childhoods filled with happy stories, or youths filled with crime-free activities, he hoped it would say that they had at least _tried_ to do better. For themselves, yeah, but other people too. People like them who had endured the hardships of abandonment or poverty. People who hadn't quite lucked their way into a better life like he and Emma had.

(Though, honestly, this life had taken a lot of work too.)

He did some research, eventually narrowing down their choices, letting Emma make the final decision with the flip of a coin. Heads for the soup kitchen and tails meant the local youth center.

Tails won.

Neal had hoped it would.

 _Maybe_ he should have felt a stronger connection to the soup kitchen given his status as a former man of the streets. But, in a weird sort of way, Neal had never actually considered himself homeless. Down on his luck? Between things? Yeah, _maybe._ But he had always managed to luck into whatever he really needed and, _eventually,_ he had pieced together how to get his hands on whatever he didn't.

Places like the Youth Center, however, he had more of a kinship with. Kids who felt lost and alone could go there, find a safe space, and they'd have someone. Several someones, actually. People they could talk to and lean on. _A support system._ Neal had never gotten that. He hadn't even known places like that existed as a kid, though he wished he had. Maybe then he would have had something to fill those long years after Neverland, easing the loneliness that had defined that period of his life he had affectionately termed _pre-Emma._

They went for a tour, bundling a fussy Porter into his stroller, a nervous Emma sitting stiffly in a brightly colored chair as they waited for someone to collect them, Neal examining the walls, hand painted words creating a story, listing the names of all the people this place had reached out to in its brief history.

"Sorry about the wait," said a lanky black man, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. He wore a handmade jersey and sounded slightly winded as he half-jogged into the lobby, a clipboard getting set off to the side as he held out a hand for Neal to shake. "Baseball game went over. Leo Rosenberg. Assistant Director."

Neal waved off the apology, "John Neilson." He introduced Emma and Porter too, grinning down at the bundle in the stroller proudly before offering Leo a curious glance, "Did you guys win?"

Leo shook Emma's hand. "Nah. Carter Elementary wound up creaming us seven to three. But the kids had fun."

"That's the spirit," said Neal enthusiastically, Emma's poorly suppressed eye roll turning into a slight flinch when Leo knelt down, focusing fully on Porter. Leo, however, just offered a friendly hello to go with a playful handshake that caused Porter to flail happily, allowing Emma to lose some of her trademark tension.

"Well," started Leo, looking up at them, "we have an excellent daycare center and -"

Neal shook his head. "We were, uh, actually hoping to volunteer."

"Even better then," said Leo, his friendly smile widening as he climbed to his feet. Porter started to fuss at the sudden absence, prompting Emma to carefully bundle him into her arms before he could cause too much of a ruckus. "The holiday influx tends to take a nose dive after the holiday season. Y'know, busy schedules and people feeling like they've done their yearly good deed. And while any help is appreciated, it's always a bit of a struggle to suddenly go from so overstaffed to barely enough people." Emma made a sympathetic noise as Leo led them down a hall, glancing between them. "Were you hoping to do anything in particular?"

Neal exchanged a questioning glance with Emma who bit her lip and shrugged a shoulder. Leo looked on with amusement.

"Well, we have a fairly extensive outreach program," he explained, breezing past the unanswered question as they found themselves in a cafeteria, excited chatter and the smell of peaches, freshly baked bread, and marina sauce playing a backdrop to the conversation, "designed specifically to benefit local children."

Emma cocked her head. "What do you mean by that? Local children?" And Neal knew she was wondering if they let anyone in or hand-picked the so-called riff-raff that came and went.

"It started out as underprivileged, mostly," said Leo, nodding at one of the cooks (one of the kids, he realized) while Emma peered through the protective glass, "Kids with working parents and small budgets would get a hot meal and a safe place to go after school. Word got out though and we try our best to keep an open door policy. Anyone's welcome. We see a lot of troubled youth unfortunately. Kids on their last legs looking for a safe haven. Runaways. Abuse victims. The whole spectrum, really. We wound up petitioning the state a year ago and got permission to add a counseling program and an overnight wing to try and accommodate for it. It's not the ideal solution, but if we're not equipped we can at least give them a safe place until we can get them in touch with the proper channels."

"And it's all non-profit?" Emma asked. Leo nodded, high-fiving a passing kid as they exited the cafeteria, and Neal let out a low whistle. It all sounded like a fairly large and impressive undertaking.

"We depend a lot on donations and state help, of course," explained Leo, leading them through a door and into what looked like a theatre of sorts. "Take our newest addition, for example - the auditorium. It got added a couple of years ago and most of our thanks for that goes to a local who gave a pretty handsome donation." He ran a hand along the polished stage. "We get the kids involved whenever we can too. Like - we'll put on plays and concerts. Arts shows. Or, like today, with the baseball game. Basically, if there's enough interest from the kids then we try to make sure there's something in the program for them. So they can learn and develop their skills, yeah, but we want to give them an opportunity to show it all off to."

"Sounds like a good way to build their confidence," murmured Neal, a bit of awe lacing his tone as Emma, absently bouncing Porter in her arms, looked around with an intense look on her face. And he knew, like him, Emma was thinking of all the times she was told _no_ and _can't_ instead of _can_ or even _try._

"That's absolutely a part of it," Leo agreed, taking a side door into a different hallway, pointing out another room that he noted, after a peak through the window, had pairs of students scribbling notes and lots of books generously strewn across the tables. "Our tutoring center. We have both student and adult volunteers that come in, help the kids with their homework, study for tests. Whatever they need really."

They continued walking, Leo talking passionately as they passed more busy classrooms, a bustling daycare center, and then a rec room.

"We really want to give these kids more than _just_ a place to go," he told them, "our goal, across the board, for our volunteers as well as the kids, is to help everyone that walks through those doors. We want to give them a safe environment to get involved and, maybe, develop skills that they can put to good use outside of here. And if it keeps the kids out of trouble? Well, that's definitely a bonus."

Neal nudged Emma playfully, mindful of their son still nestled in her embrace. "This probably would have done us some good as kids, huh?"

Emma narrowed her eyes, offering a pointed, " _John._ "

But Leo merely chuckled. "It's okay, really. We find that the people who know what the kids are going through are the best kind of volunteer."

"We didn't exactly have a lot," Neal admitted, the conversation's sudden shift to something more personal causing Emma to visibly stiffen next to him while Porter picked up on his mother's discomfort and began to fuss. "No family. No home. And -"

"No one should have to go through that," said Emma suddenly, surprising Neal (and even Porter quieted). It wasn't just that she had joined the conversation (personal as it had turned), but the intensity of her voice as she spoke. An impressed sort of look crossed Leo's features. "But if they do. They should have a place like this. That puts them first."

Neal smiled softly at the reminder of their own Rule Number One.

"I couldn't agree more," Leo told them, "Places like this did me a lot of good as a kid."

Neal raised a brow. "Yeah?"

(Emma, he could tell, wanted to chide him for prying but Leo didn't even blink.)

"I started volunteering because of court-mandated community service," explained Leo, not a hint of shame lacing his words as he led them down a brightly-painted hallway. "My brothers ... well, we were left to fend for ourselves a lot of the time and bless them, they tried their best, but they weren't exactly the best influence growing up and I wound up getting caught red-handed, _literally_ , on a vandalism charge back in New York. The judge let me off with a warning and community service. So I picked one of the local centers on a lark, thinking it'd be an easy way to knock off the hours." He shrugged. "They weren't as ... _present_ in the community back then. They had no problem putting me to work though and it kept me off the streets so, all in all, probably the best thing that could have happened to me at the time."

"That's how we feel about this little guy," Neal said, playfully tugging on Port's foot causing him to flail happily in Emma's arms, prompting one of her patented nervous looks, as if Emma feared Porter would wriggle his way right out of her grasp. He offered a light, "Here," gently lifting Porter out of his mother's embrace, giving her a bit of a break.

Leo smiled. "Not much of a stroller kid, huh?"

Emma scrunched her nose, tucking Port's displaced blanket back around him as she gave a dry, "More like anti-furniture, really."

After a short-cut through a well-used gymnasium, they had would up in the art wing, Neal realized, the smell of paint, glue, and pencil shavings assaulting his senses as he took in the drawings that lined the walls. "You've got a talented bunch of kids here."

"We do," agreed Leo proudly, opening a door to reveal the collection of musical instruments behind it (everything from the piano to drums and Emma quickly pointed out a guitar). "When budgets get tight schools often have to cut their art and music programs first so they tend to be our biggest draw. We do a lot of seminars too. When we can get the teachers. Sculpting, pottery. Things like that."

"John's a bit of an artist himself," offered Emma, half-boasting in a way that caused Neal to duck his head, concealing a hint of pink and noting that Porter's eyes had finally started to droop closed. "Drawing. Music. All that stuff. He plays the guitar before we put the baby down - Port, here, can't get enough of it."

"Well, if you got any interest in teaching -"

Emma cut-in with a definitive nod, "He's a really great teacher."

"Em," Neal murmured half-heartedly. While he knew she liked to credit him with teaching her what she termed the important things, he had never had any actual training when it came to drawing _or_ music. What did he know about passing those skills on to someone else?

"It doesn't necessarily have to be anything formal," Leo noted, leading them out a back door, forcing Neal to squint as his eyes readjusted to the bright Florida sun. Emma quickly leaned over to adjust Porter's hat, attempting to convey some sort of message behind the guise of a pointed look as she did. "Lack of volunteers meant that who we do have tend to start out in a more supervisory role. They sit, give the kids something to do, and make sure no fights break out. But, more often than not, they tend to realize that they had some nugget of knowledge to offer and the teaching just sort of springs up naturally out of that."

"I dunno how good I'd be at teaching. Drawing, at least," Neal admitted roughly, settling down at a picnic table. Those things had always come instinctively. He worked on them, yeah, but the how-to came from somewhere inside him. He didn't know how to pass that on. Not really. "I'm good with the hands on stuff though. Taking something. Building it. Fixing it. Turning it into something else."

It came with the whole adapting, learning how to survive _thing._

Leo smiled, holding his arms out wide. "Sounds like arts-and-crafts to me. So if you want ... put a list together, we can get you whatever supplies you happen to need and see if we can set up a time that works for you. Y'know, as long as it's all kid-friendly and in-budget."

"That sounds," Neal couldn't quite find the words so he settled on, "really great."

"Excellent," said Leo before fixing Emma with a look. "That just leaves you then."

She turned, breaking her intense stare at vast fields and a busy playground to look back at Leo with wide-eyes, as if she'd just been cornered.

"I'm not really the, uh, creative type," she said blandly. Emma had plenty of strengths, Neal knew, but none of them involved her imagination. "Or the teaching type. The whole talking thing, in general, kinda turns me off."

Neal and Leo exchanged amused glances.

"She likes to act tough," said Neal, nudging Emma's shoulder fondly as he did his best to not disturb Porter (though, once he fell asleep, only his own needs tended to rouse him), "but she's really a big old softie."

Leo adopted a sort of knowing look and said, "I think I have just the thing for you."

X-x-x-x-X

That thing was youth counseling.

Neal, the lucky bastard, had gotten set up in a creative arts classroom, and it was, of course, perfect for him. He'd set up shop a couple days a week (a few hour chunks on Friday and Sunday and then, when he could, he'd stop by the center during his lunch breaks), teach the kids how to make _whatever_ , and would come home, gush about it for days afterwards, and then repeat. He loved it. And Emma had honestly never seen him _that_ passionate about anything that didn't involve her or Porter.

Which was good. _Great_ , even.

Emma just wished she could muster up the same sort of enthusiasm for her assignment.

She had to undergo a pretty thorough training seminar, for one, and even with that she kinda doubted that she'd gain enough people skills to actually help someone else solve their problems. Not when she barely had the emotional know-how to deal with her own shit.

It didn't help that it involved leaving Porter for _hours._ And while training fell on a Saturday giving them, according to Neal anyway, some extra special father-son bonding time, it still worried her. Because Neal's schedule meant that he had never spent that much alone time with the baby before and while she obviously trusted him, it was a lot of work and Porter could get finicky, liking things a certain way. Even getting him to eat out of the bottle was a hassle and a half.

"But what do you do with him?" Emma would ask, pushing back Porter's unruly hair as she straddled the space between the apartment and the hallway.

"Drink bourbon and rob convenience stores." Emma gave him a blank look. "We go to the park, baby, have ourselves a nice little walk."

"Don't forget his -"

"-Hat and blue blanket in case he gets fussy," Neal would finish, feigning exasperation, "I've got this, Em."

Her training ended officially _today_ and while she stood by her opinion, truly believing that the center did great work, she just didn't see herself as a good fit. Especially in the capacity Leo seemed determined to use her in.

And so, before catastrophe could strike, further ruining already ruined lives, Emma knocked on his office door and told him as much.

"We'd be happy to give you a bit more training, Emma," Leo said and Emma couldn't help but note that he had chosen to lean against his desk, right in front of her, rather than talk _at_ her from behind it. Almost like an equal. "But I have to tell you that Marge has kept me up to date on all your lessons and sounds to me like you're doing just fine. A bit shy, maybe, when it came to the improv scenarios." Emma raised a brow because what he called _shy_ was really more like a feeling of downright discomfort. Leo, however, didn't waver. "But you were also attentive and she liked your practical approach."

Emma sighed. What Leo called practical, she would call insensitive. "I just feel like I could be a better help somewhere else. Like in the cafeteria. I can ... kinda cook." She had improved anyway. Without work and a baby that had grown (slightly) less demanding, she had found herself with more time to spend experimenting in the kitchen. "And I was serving food before anyway so you'd _know_ I'd be good at that."

"Is that how you see yourself?" Leo asked, cocking his head. "As someone who serves food?"

Emma furrowed her brow, "Well, it's my job, I guess." Or it would be when she inevitably went back to work.

He turned, rifling around on the desk behind him before he produced a piece of paper, handing it to her. "That's last week's menu."

Emma perused it, but she didn't recognize, like, any of the dishes on there. "We try our best to put together healthy, organic based meals. Our students prepare the meals, serve them, and clean up when they're done. All under the supervision of professionals. So while I'd be happy to get you set up there, Emma, it'd be as a student, not a volunteer."

She bit the back of her thumb and pushed the menu back onto Leo's desk, half-wondering if it would reflect badly on Neal if she made a hasty exit and just never came back.

"Now, I don't know you that well, Emma," said Leo, his gaze fixed despite her attempts to look at a point just beyond him, "but I'm not so sure you know yourself that well either."

Emma frowned, offering a defensive, "I know what I'm good at."

"I think you know what you've tried," said Leo pointedly. "You know what you're comfortable with. But I don't think you've ever really pushed yourself either. Because you never had anyone to show you how."

"Ne-" Nerves made her stumble over the name for the first time in forever and she stuttered out an attempt to correct it, " _John._ "

Leo swiftly cut in. "I imagine he does. Just like I bet you do the same for him. Which is wonderful, really, but you're both still learning how to be _more_ and until you both discover what that _more_ is, you can only push each other so far."

Emma felt ridiculous. Pathetic, really, and half-mortified. Leo had these _stupid_ expectations for her and inevitably she would fail. She _knew_ it. And he just kept going.

"I want to help you. The both of you." Emma blinked because clearly he had their roles backwards. They were the volunteers. "And maybe you're right. Maybe youth counseling isn't a good fit for you. That's okay. We'll move onto the next thing until we do find something that suits you. But either way, we won't know until _after_ you try."

"That seems like an awful lot of work," said Emma, shifting in her chair. "I don't want to be a bother."

"Why would it be a bother?" Leo asked, seeming truly perplexed, "this is a part of my job."

"But I'm supposed to be _volunteering_ ," Emma stressed, "not floating around, wasting everyone's time."

"What difference does it make?" Leo asked, tone practical and brow furrowed as if he really didn't understand. "The work still gets done. But honestly, I think you're going to surprise yourself, Emma. Because believe it or not, I didn't just pick youth counseling out of a hat. And I never would have put you there if I thought you'd somehow be a threat to the kids well-being. Marge and the gang are great at what they do, but sometimes there's a disconnect. It's been a while since they've sat on the other side of that desk. If they did at all. But _you_ know what it's like, you know what those kids are going through."

"I didn't actually deal with it all that well, though," admitted Emma, picking at a lose thread on her jeans.

"Not everyone that comes through here is looking for someone to magically fix their problems," said Leo. "And no one can give them that. Usually they just want someone they can talk to. Someone who will listen. Maybe, even, understand. And if you _do_ get a problem bigger than you can handle then just tell someone. Make it a group effort. _That's_ okay too. Encouraged, actually."

She supposed, in a way, it was just another reminder of what Neal liked to tell her. That she didn't have to do everything completely on her own. And while she still worried about wasting everyone's time (and about potentially giving someone advice that would ruin their life), it was nice, really, that Leo seemed as invested in the people that worked _for_ him as he did the children they helped.

"Okay," she agreed, the word weighted down with reluctance and fear.

Leo smiled gently. "I really do think you're going to surprise yourself, Emma."

X-x-x-x-x-X

She did.

Things had started off with a lot of awkward small talk and sullen silences (from Emma's side just as much as the teens). So, for a while there, considering the fact that she failed to make anything remotely connection-like with anyone but a box of donuts, Emma thought she had been well on her way to proving Leo wrong. Only Emma had never done well with the whole awkward silence thing.

It made her feel strangely exposed. This pushed her to talk. About anything, really, _not_ personal because if awkward silence made her feel exposed then talking about her emotions made her feel downright naked. So there was talking, just not about the things she assumed she was supposed to be connecting with them on.

But if teenagers liked to talk about anything it was the things they hated. And Emma hated plenty of things. Things like people, food prices, people, traffic, people, work, people, her neighbors, people, and lots of other things.

Kids hated things too: school, people, counseling, people in authority, and people.

Emma had plenty of stories and complaints about all of that. They didn't even involve the distant past.

And if you got people talking about the crap they hated long enough then they inevitably got worked up. And when people got worked up they also (usually) got loud and passionate. Sometimes they even started talking about things they liked.

Still. This approach, Emma knew, sat on the far edge of removed from the deep emotional connection she sorta assumed they expected her to build with these kids.

She had thought, obviously, it'd probably go unappreciated that she had bonded with a kid about how _hard_ it was for a former criminal to get back on the straight and narrow. At the very least it seemed like a bad first impression. But it _was_ hard, especially with a baby, which the poor kid they had forced in her direction definitely didn't have to deal with.

"Starting over," she had told the kid, Daryl, a bit bluntly, "sucks. It's hard and ugly and absolutely exhausting. But it gets easier. Because funny thing? People are more willing to help you if you show them that you're willing to try."

(And shit, okay, maybe she was starting to get it now.)

"They gotta know you're worth the effort though," she continued, "which means you've got to put the work in. You can't give up at the first sign of failure." She thought about Neal's newest ideology. "It's hard when you're the new kid, but sometimes the clean slate helps." He looked skeptical. "Gives you a chance to reinvent yourself."

(He seemed to think about it, at least.)

Still, at the end of it all, she fully expected Leo or Marge or some other supervisor to tell her that, maybe, youth counseling wasn't her thing, after all.

(Never mind that Leo had shoved it on her in the first place.)

Instead Marge gave her a " _Good_ job," and Leo had offered her a knowing look as he said, "See you next week." And despite cocking her head and giving them both her best ' _are you shitting me'_ look, she couldn't actually detect the lie.

Huh.

She didn't know what to make of it.

(Not when she still felt like a complete disaster.)

And naturally, after she returned home and resisted the urge to pick up a sleeping Porter just so she could cuddle him, Neal asked her how it went.

Emma shrugged. "Alright, I guess." Then, more significantly, "It's a good place, Neal. I can see why you like it so much."

And maybe she did too.

She still didn't get it. Because _clearly_ Leo had put a whole lot of misplaced faith in her. But even if it made her stomach twist up in knots, thinking about her inevitable failure, she appreciated it too. Because Leo had been right when he'd said that no one had ever really bothered to push her before. Only Neal. But even this felt different. Neal _loved_ her and was ever the optimist. Leo, however, could have written her off, giving her some meaningless task (which she still kinda wished he had), and never bothered beyond that. But he _had_ bothered and that meant something to Emma. It terrified her, yeah, but she wanted to try. She wanted him to be right (even when every part of her kept shouting that he was clearly wrong). But mostly (and maybe this was her _finally_ getting what Neal meant when he had started them on this whole crusade that he swore had been her thing first) she wanted to do _better._ To _be_ better.

And maybe, _finally,_ she was starting to believe that she actually could be.

* * *

Thanks for reading and thank you to maressaonce for taking the time to review! :)

 **Next Chapter:** Yes Man


	12. Yes Man

**Chapter 12: Yes Man**

Neal had noticed it time and time again, getting a front row seat for every shift, watching as, brick by brick, Emma had lowered her walls, guarded girl turning into a reluctant ally and growing into a protective partner and lover. She struggled too, constantly fighting her own practical instincts as she learned to both let herself hope for a better future and, perhaps the more difficult of the two, believe in her own potential. Something that Neal thought made the moments when she _did_ win the battle all the more inspiring. Like her steps into motherhood. She had accepted that challenge both reluctantly and nervously, but she continued to blossom under the role, loving and nurturing their son in ways he knew Emma had once feared she was incapable of.

And then she started volunteering at the youth center and suddenly she would come home and willingly share anecdotes about her day. Even when she couldn't say anything particularly meaningful (not without breaking certain confidentiality rules and whatnot), Emma still managed to volunteer something that would cause the corners of her mouth to lift upwards, Neal matching her grin, both eventually dissolving into fits of laughter when they stumbled upon some silly thing done by the kids they worked with. She had never talked about the restaurant like that. In fact, even when she had started to get on with Gretchen, getting Emma to comment on her shift had still almost always required the verbal equivalent of pulling teeth, usually ending with a complaint-filled rant.

(That probably explained why she worried so much about him and his own job.)

But he liked the way she didn't immediately try to leave the day behind her, instead choosing to take more than _just_ stories and memories home with her. Neal had walked into the kitchen several times now, shedding his jacket after a long day at the office himself only to find Emma going over files or talking quick and loud over the phone (usually with Leo or Marge), sharing and discussing her ideas and questions and, most of all, her concerns. Leo didn't seem to mind this, taking it in stride even when he had no feasible way to implement her suggestions or easily fix her worries.

(Much to Emma's continuous frustration.)

(Neal loved that she tried anyway because it meant that she felt like she had something to contribute - a change in and of itself.)

(And, okay, maybe the whole trying thing looked kinda sexy on her too.)

"You heard, right?" she asked him after clicking off the phone with an annoyed huff (something that Porter quickly emulated from his high chair). "About Marissa Max getting into Julliard?"

Neal nodded, letting out an impressed whistle as he grabbed a box of Cheerios from the cabinet, snaking out a handful for Porter. But it was no secret, Marissa eagerly telling everyone that crossed her path, volunteers and kids sharing in her excitement and making it the talk of the center (the art department especially) for days.

" _Yeah,"_ continued Emma, "problem is she can't afford it. She's not even sure she'll be able to score a scholarship. So I thought, _maybe_ , the center could cover -"

" _Emma-_ "

"I _know,_ " she said quickly and Neal absently accepted the cheerio Porter was kindly trying to share with him, "but it doesn't seem fair, does it? And, _obviously,_ they couldn't pay the whole way -"

" -Or for every other kid that gets into college," Neal added because Marissa wouldn't be the only college-bound teenager that came to Emma with this problem. Unfortunately.

"Leo said that too," she said shortly, scooting off her perch on the counter, features shifting into a bright smile as Porter offered her a piece of his snack, Emma accepting with a gracious word of thanks before she switched back to the matter at hand. "But there has to be _some,_ y'know, fundraiser or a sponsor for these types of things."

"I'm sure there is," agreed Neal, thought this did nothing to ease Emma's disappointed frown. "But maybe she'll get lucky. You could do some research, help her apply for some scholarships. Or a loan," Emma scoffed, "or, maybe, there's another school out there that _will_ give her a scholarship."

"I'm pretty sure Julliard is, like, _the_ best though," she said and it was Neal's turn to frown.

"Since when do you believe in this _the best_ sh -" she gave him a pointed look, head nodding at Porter (who was quite focused on his cereal) and he recovered the sentence, "stuff. The Emma Swan I know believes in working hard and making the best of what she's got. Julliard would be a great opportunity. Of course it would, but that doesn't mean she can't do just as well somewhere else."

She stared at him for a second, head cocked, narrowed eyes shifting into that sorta half-surprised, half-amazed look she sometimes gave him when he managed to catch her off guard and exceed her expectations. Finally, she shook her head, grabbed him by the cheeks and gave him a kiss. "I love you."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered good naturedly as she repeated the gesture with Porter when he made his own smacking noises. And with renewed energy she ran off, intending to go look up possible scholarships and alternative schools while he gave his promise to get dinner on the table.

Unfortunately, for every kid like Marissa that Emma talked to, there were twice as many kids stuck in situations that didn't have a plausible solution, most of which he never heard a word about. Because of trust and confidentiality type things, yeah, but he got the impression that even if those things weren't an issue, she would still have a hard time finding just the right turn of phrase to properly express some of the horrible things that came through her office.

And while the downs hadn't necessarily discouraged her, she did have a hard time shaking them off. Emma didn't like it. Having things she couldn't fix and the broken pieces of both their blender and toaster as well as the increasingly organized state of their apartment had become proof enough of that. In fact her progress had made Neal nervous enough that he had taken the box of her old things and, somewhat awkwardly, asked Leo (Joy, he feared, would lecture him or worse, tell Emma) if he could, maybe, find a place to store them before she could make her way to the back of the hall closet they typically didn't use for anything _but_ storage.

This, unfortunately, still didn't stop her from finding a box of crap that he could have sworn he had thrown away years ago. But he had came home one night to find Emma laid out on the floor with Porter, both staring up at a sea of speckled light scattered across the ceiling and clutched in her hands, he realized, was one of his old Shadow Catchers.

Neal blinked and settled down next to them, ruffling Porter's already unruly hair, asking, "Where'd you find that?"

"Buried under some old books in the trunk," she murmured, just loudly enough to be heard over Porter's excited babble. "It's lucky you changed your name. Somewhere Neal Cassidy built up a mountain of library fees."

She tried for a smile but it didn't quite reach her eyes and, gently, he pried the coconut out of her hands, Porter's eager gaze following the trail of lights.

"What I really can't fathom though," continued Emma and by her tone he imagined she'd been going for a joke, "is what made you look at a coconut and think nightlight."

Nightlight. _Right._

Only Porter's obvious enchantment had stopped Neal from snuffing the candle and trashing the reminder he should have rid himself of years ago. Instead he set it off to the side, murmuring a half-lie as he reached for Emma's hand. "Oh, y'know, just the usual. Short funds, lack of electricity, and bad dreams."

She squeezed, fingers tightening around his in a death grip, clinging to his hand as she looked over at him. Just for a moment, mouth pressed together, eyes wide with sympathy and shining with unshed tears before she returned to staring fixedly at the fake stars above.

 _What happened?_ Neal wanted to ask. _Who did you talk to?_ But he had picked up fairly quickly that it wouldn't do any good. Sometimes he could only _be_ there.

"Maybe that's it," she said eventually, "Your next craft."

He furrowed his brow curiously. "What?"

Honestly, he had struggled to find something age appropriate and undemanding time-wise for his students (half of which changed from class to class, interest depending on everything from overflow to weather and, sometimes, the craft of the day). It wasn't easy finding something that captured the attention of both seven _and_ thirteen year olds _and_ then also happened to fit into the span of a single hour.

He had started off with play dough because who didn't love that. But when he'd told Emma this she had only laughed hysterically.

When she had _finally_ calmed, she said, "Yeah that's probably not gonna help the already fragile reputation of Arts and Crafts."

(Arts and Crafts were, according to a majority of the center's demographic, for babies.)

Right. He had gone back to the drawing board after that and while staring out the window desperately trying to come up with an idea, he'd happened to catch a glimpse of their dreamcatcher hanging all proudly and figured how hard could it be?

Hard enough, apparently.

It wasn't, for one, a single session kind of thing. And while he could almost always head a class on the weekend, he couldn't always set aside the time during the week (try as he might). And even when he could, it didn't necessarily mean that kids in the weekend sessions could make it.

(And vice versa.)

That particular project though had also needed things like patience and a steady hand and patience. Kids, he found (and rightly so), tended to lack these characteristics.

It, however, had led to Ellie suggesting, "We should try suncatchers, Mr. Neilson. They're real pretty."

The budget's demand that they use paper, however, meant they hadn't quite turned out how she'd hoped.

 _So,_ needless to say, this left Neal eager for any and all suggestions.

"Coconut nightlights," was Emma's and she explained, "They don't look too hard to make, they're easy on the eyes, and, well, everyone has a monster under the bed they need to fight, don't they?"

Neal's jaw tightened because while Emma spoke metaphorically, he knew the reality. He thought about the intended purpose of the Shadow Catcher and then the lost souls Pan liked to recruit. Exactly the type of kids that frequented the center. And as much as he would have liked to ditch the last reminder of Neverland, suddenly he knew that he couldn't.

"That's brilliant, baby," he told her, meaning every word even if, like her, he couldn't find it in himself to muster up the enthusiasm.

She smiled tightly, bringing their joined hands up to her lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles and murmuring, "Tell us a story?"

He obliged, telling them all about the stars, and later, after he had finished his demonstration (a class that had gone surprisingly well, stray kids even wandering in after they passed the open door), Neal made the trek down to the counseling center and dropped a finished coconut off on Emma's desk (pointed out by Marge, but the framed photo of him and Porter certainly helped too), figuring that she could pass it along to someone with a monster in need of fighting.

X-x-x-x-X

After the success of coconut _nightlights_ , Neal had figured that he would probably be better off going for practical rather than the show-y aesthetics he had started off with. So they moved onto the homemade compass, Neal demonstrating how to make one in a pinch with nothing but a needle and fur. A horseshoe would do the trick if you had one handy.

"Or a refrigerator magnet," noted Frank and Neal supposed, yeah, that would work too but before he could agree, Jane came back with a quick retort.

"Carry a lot of magnets around the woods, do ya?"

This dovetailed into an argument that Neal did his best to quickly diffuse, but once he did and everyone settled down to work (layered with excited chatter about the upcoming baseball game), they nearly managed to match the success of their previous class, everyone armed with a working compass as they exited the classroom, passing a man leaning casually against the doorway. Neal didn't recognize him and none of the kids claimed him as he passed.

"My father would always just use his hair." Nostalgia tugged at the stranger's eyes.

Neal tried to look suspicious as he cocked his head, "Can I help you?"

"Maybe." The man seemed unperturbed, perhaps even amused by his Emma-like attitude, forcing Neal to assume that he hadn't mustered up an intimidating enough frown. "I was thinking about making a donation and I might have gotten a bit turned around."

Ah. Neal let a friendly smile lose and walked him down to the appropriate office, making sure the man didn't get sidetracked on the way in (though most of center had already emptied out onto the fields for some big sporting event or other). He had planned to just head home after that when a shouted, "Neilson," stopped him in his tracks and he turned to find Leo jogging up to him. "Just the man I was looking for." Leo lobbed a t-shirt at him. "You're up."

He turned the shirt over in his hands, thumb running over the number 8 sewn haphazardly across the back. He imagined that there was a Home Economics classroom somewhere in the building that could take credit.

Neal furrowed his brow, rushing to keep up with Leo who had already resumed a brisk pace. "Up?"

"Baseball team. Volunteers are in on the rotation. No exception," Leo looked at him, half-confused. "I could have sworn I told you that."

"No."

Leo waved this off, "Well, I _know_ I told Emma."

That grabbed Neal's interest. "Emma's playing?"

"Uh, no." For a moment, Leo looked downright uncomfortable. "She, uh, had to ... She has an excuse."

Neal shook his head, amused, quickly deducing what her excuse must have been. Because Emma had caught on fairly early that just the mention of breastfeeding made people uncomfortable and so had taken to using it as her get out of jail free card for anything she _really_ didn't want to do.

Neal followed Leo through one of the many doors that led outside. "Does _I've never played baseball_ count as an excuse?"

Leo frowned, wearing a strange mix of taken aback and disgusted. "Never played ..." He spluttered, seemingly unable to even bring himself to say the words before plastering on a smile that only looked slightly worried. "We'll find something for you."

Neal doubted this, but instead just asked, "I thought it was a kid's team anyway?"

Leo nodded. "It is, but we've got one for the adults too. We go up against local businesses and the like to raise money. Today it's just practice with the kids though. We'll juggle up the two teams and play against each other for, y'know, the fun of it."

Neal had the distinct impression that Leo still took these mock practices just as seriously as any other game and so, unfortunately for him, he had not picked the best volunteer to fill in. The ball was like a magnet and Neal like the sheet of metal it was attracted to. They started him off as short-stop, but he kept getting plowed in the shins and did a piss-poor job of actually doing any catching. So they moved him to the outfield because the other team hadn't knocked one out of the park just yet (he was half-sure that meant a home-run). Well, until, of course, he got out there and then they really started racking up the points.

He did just as well when it came time to hit the ball. Though his teammates had plenty of advice about when to swing and how to stand and where, exactly, to put his hands on the bat.

It all made him very glad that Emma hadn't been there to actually see him.

Though, of course, all the kids gleefully shared the stories of his dismal failures the next day with all those that didn't get to attend, and inevitably these (clearly exaggerated) tales got back to Emma by the time he had gone to meet her and Porter for lunch.

Someone even had a recording of it.

"Y'know, this might have gotten me to the game," said Emma, lips pressed together and eyes glued to the handheld device, kids laughing behind her as he dove after the ball and missed on a repeated loop.

Neal slunk further into his seat, picking at the meal of the day.

Eventually, when the kids left, taking their laughter and video with them, a grinning Emma leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. "I happen to like that you're not all jock-like. Besides," she nodded at another table, pointing out a red-headed boy who Neal remembered had kept reaching for his inhaler throughout the game. "Curtis made it around the bases for the first time yesterday and no one can call him the worst player on the field anymore. It made his day."

Well, there was something, at least. Still. Neal _almost_ found himself glad to have the opportunity to disappear back to work. Not that he hated his job (despite what Emma thought), it was just a lot of the same, day in day out. Numbers and computers screens and numbers _on_ computer screens. It was easy enough, of course, but Neal had always been more of a hands on kinda guy and he didn't really fit in with the business-y sorts he called co-workers who liked money and stocks and going for drinks with the guys when the day let out.

Neal liked going home to his kid and Emma and, these days, planning crafts for his weekly class.

(And he would have wanted to do that regardless of his job title.)

It wasn't all bah humbug. Not since he had bought Mildred, the office's secretary, a cup of coffee and asked her about the pictures on her desk. She told him about her granddaughter and he showed her photos of Porter and they shared the latest office gossip. It passed the time, having someone to shoot the breeze with. And while he was very careful to not let it interfere with his work (he really did need the job), his boss, Mr. Sanders, took notice when he happened to catch Neal taking longer than necessary to return from the water cooler.

"Neilson!" shouted Sanders, "Office, now."

Mildred frowned and poorly muffled snickers echoed from the cubicles. This wasn't unusual. Sanders was prone to shouting at anyone that so much as looked at him the wrong way, but Neal had mostly managed to stay out of his line of fire.

Up until now anyway.

"I was wondering why old Millie was in a better mood lately," noted Sanders after Neal had settled into his seat.

Neal could think of a reason of a reason or two why, maybe, she wouldn't have been. It was best, however, to just feign ignorance. "Sorry, sir?"

"Nothing." Sanders cleared his throat and made a show of looking at a folder laid out on his desk. "Tell me, Neilson, have you ever considered sales?"

This time the confusion was genuine. "Sales, sir?"

"You've got a way with people, Neilson, and I'm betting you could really push a product." The words sounded complimentary enough. "Commissions are good if you actually manage it."

That sounded a helluva lot like a pay raise. Something he and Emma desperately needed, the money they had managed to put away before Porter arrived already drying up. Not so bad that they were living from paycheck to paycheck, but he and Emma had started to talk about her going back to work, even if neither of them were entirely pleased about putting Porter in daycare just yet. _This_ might be a better solution and immediately Sanders latched on, taking that spark of hope that had painted Neal's face and turned it into interest. "I'm gonna pass your name along. See if we can set you up on an interview."

He didn't tell Emma. She'd just cock her head and ask if he wanted to go into sales and, honestly, he didn't know. Especially when, he realized, it sounded a lot like the shit he used to get up to. Y'know, bullshitting until he got someone to do what they, _maybe,_ didn't really want to do. Ripping them off. Lying, possibly.

It also involved travel explained the woman interviewing him. She was all enthusiasm and toothy smiles even as he asked, somewhat worriedly where, exactly, they'd be sending him.

"Oh all over. You'd get to see the country!"

He'd thought, or hoped rather, that it'd be a few hours drive. Y'know, something he could make home in a day if he really pushed himself. He could handle that. But as much as he liked to see the sights and explore new places, he also had other priorities now and would much rather do those things with Emma and Porter at his side.

So he asked: "How often?"

"A week or two." Neal sighed with relief. "Each month."

Oh.

"I have a baby."

That, he thought, should explain everything but Ms. Wilson clearly misunderstood the reason for his concern. "Well, with commissions you'd be making significantly more than you do now. You'd be able to get ... Peter was it."

The name made his skin crawl and, with more force than he typically used, Neal corrected her, "Porter."

"Porter everything he needs _and_ anything he could ever want."

Pretty words, he supposed, but what Porter needed, most of all, was his father. A father that would be there.

"The job is yours if you want it," she told him all too kindly.

He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't exactly decide what he _should_ say. So he asked, quite hesitantly, "Can I think about it?"

The large smile remained fixed but tightened around the edges. "Of course."

He still didn't tell Emma, obsessing over it for a good couple of days, stealing bits of time after class let out to go over numbers and facts, wondering how much of Porter's future they needed to start preparing for _now_ if they didn't want him to settle like Marissa Max might have to.

Leo, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to teach Neal the ins and outs of baseball, making it increasingly difficult for him to set aside adequate thinking time when Leo would just knock on the door and whisk him off to practice.

("You know Leo wasn't serious, right?" Emma had said one night when he came home, sore and exhausted. "You don't _have_ to play on the team." And Neal did know, but it was for a good cause and it might be a nice skill to have one day. So he could play with Port. If he wanted.)

Leo, meanwhile, still seemed somewhat baffled by the fact that Neal had never played the game before.

"Not even as a kid?" Leo wore an amazed look as he handed Neal the safety helmet.

Neal shrugged, fitting the straps. "The old man had a war injury and, well, sports weren't exactly a priority."

He was still out on whether he even _liked_ baseball or not. Something he told Leo repeatedly.

"Don't be ridiculous. You just need the practice. And," Leo, who desperately wanted to break his losing streak against the local library, seemed to have no shame in admitting this, "we really need the extra player."

Well, at least it was for a good cause.

They started with his swing, Leo watching intently, correcting his form and barely managing to conceal a wince whenever Neal would shuffle out of the way of the ball.

"Well, don't be afraid of it. Stand to the side of the plate. Yup, right there. The machine's gonna hit it to the same place every time."

They went on like this until, a good thirty-odd swings later, Neal managed to make contact with the ball a steady three times in a row. Leo called this a streak and so finally, he said, they could call it a night.

Neal cleared his throat and wiped sweat from his brow. He didn't know if bonding through sports meant they had passed from just boss and volunteer to something like friends, but he let the thing plaguing him burst from his lips anyway. If in a slightly round-about fashion.

"You like your job, right?"

"Most days." Leo zipped up his over-sized bag and then offered Neal a curious look when he failed to respond right away. But instead of asking _why,_ he offered, "Why don't we go for a drink?"

Neal had already texted Emma to say that he'd be late so he shrugged and a half-hour later they were settling onto two stools, ordering beer at the local bar.

"So what's going on?"

Neal wrapped his hands around the frosted mug. "I got offered this job."

"Good money?"

"If I do well."

"Not the dream though?"

He didn't know what _the dream_ was, but it was safe to say, "Hardly."

"Y'know what one of the great things about baseball is?" Leo asked, nodding at a screen playing a local game behind the bar. Neal shook his head, fingers trailing up and down the glass. "It's a game of second and third chances. Each batter gets three strikes and each team gets three outs. So if one player fumbles the rest of the team can make it up. Not every hit is gonna be a home run either. But it's just as useful to get a man on base. And as fun as it is to steal, it's not always the best move for your team."

Neal took a swig from his mug and let the words sink in. Neal liked a good metaphor as much as the next guy (and much to Emma's annoyance) and while the sports analogy meant that parts of it were lost on him, he still got the gist of it. So that just left the question - how many outs did he and Emma have left on their collective team?

It was something to think about.

"Thanks. Y'know, for," Neal gestured vaguely, "everything."

Leo waved off his platitude with a kind, "It's nothing," as they walked to the car before adding, "I did wanna ask ... Well, we need someone to fill in for Karen's art class next weekend. Time permitting, of course, I know you've got a lot on your plate."

"Just the weekend?" Leo nodded, specifying Saturday and promising that they could move his regular class to the morning. "Yeah. Me and Em should be able to figure something out."

"Look into it. Let me know."

Emma frowned suspiciously when he told her.

"What?" he asked, "I know it'll takes up a good chunk of the day -"

Emma cut him off, "It's not that. It's just Karen needs someone to fill in because she's getting ready to pop." Neal frowned and Emma rolled her eyes. "The baby. It's due soon."

Neal, who didn't really see the problem, just shrugged. "Leo only asked about next week."

Her lips twitched slightly and she offered a shrug and then a airy, "Okay. If you want to."

"I do," Neal agreed and Emma did that thing where she cocked her head and narrowed her eyes in suspicion, "I'm not lying."

"I know," she said, smiling tightly, "that's not what I'm trying to figure out."

Neal waited for her to elaborate, but she merely shrugged it off, claiming it wasn't important, returning her full attention to Porter, doing her best to complete the all-too important quest of getting him to eat his vegetables.

"There was, uh," Neal rubbed the back of his neck, "something else."

Emma sat back, looking mildly concerned. "Okay."

"Nothing," he let out a breath of air, "I got ... I wanna use one of my fouls." Emma blinked. "You know, in baseball, when you miss." He mimed swinging.

"You mean strike?"

He nodded. _Right._ "I got offered a job. Well, they want to switch me over to ... It's something with sales. It'd mean more money."

" _Neal-_ "

He shook his head, cutting over her because even if he suspected that she would agree with him, he still needed to say it himself. This was his decision and he wanted to own it.

(Especially if it inevitably blew up in his face.)

"It's a lot of travel though, Em, and I don't ... I wanna use my strike."

She smiled, big and bright. "Okay."

"Okay," said Neal, smiling as he finally let himself relax. He didn't need a superpower to know that she really meant that.

X-x-x-x-x-X

"I know what you're doing."

Leo looked up, seeming both surprised at the sudden interruption (though his door had been open) and amused by her brazen attitude.

"Paperwork, unfortunately," he explained. "Even non-profits have the boring chore of managing funds."

Emma rolled her eyes. "With _John."_

His expression remained amused. "Oh?"

She nodded. "At first, I just thought you were taking advantage of him and I was gonna come in here and rip you a new one."

Neal wasn't a pushover, but he was notoriously agreeable, particularly when it came to putting others needs before his own. And that was what working at the center was all about, yeah, but Emma didn't think he should have to get stuck taking on more than he could handle just because he wasn't quite as free and lose with the word no as some people.

But then he turned down that stupid job and Emma realized, maybe, she didn't need to worry about him getting roped into things nearly as much as she thought she had.

"Emma -"

She shook her head, "But then I thought about it. And I get it. Really. That, in a round about way, you're doing the same thing with him that you did with me."

Leo sighed, admitting, "My intentions weren't entirely honorable. I really did need someone to fill in."

Emma snorted.

"He's good with the kids though."

"He is," she agreed, "And John enjoys it. Teaching the class."

"Good."

She meant to leave after that when Leo called her back. She turned, raising a brow, "Yeah?"

"We like to try and hit up relatives for donations." he said, "y'know, appeal to their better nature, guilt them into helping the cause so-and-so supports. So if you had anyone -"

Emma shook her head. "Just my boys."

Leo nodded. "I figured as much. Still. Doesn't hurt to ask."

Emma smiled because _no_. Not anymore.


	13. Guilt Trip

**Chapter 13: Guilt Trip**

Winter faded into Spring and Porter thrived, the once fragile newborn strengthening as he grew; his round, pink cheeks giving him a healthy glow as he developed an energy that would surely have Emma longing for the days of sleepless nights just as soon as her son became sufficiently mobile. But for now he reveled in his new ability to prop himself up on his elbows during tummy time and would eagerly grasp at anything that he could get his tiny hands around (particularly _Puppy_ and poor Mama's hair). He sat up all on his own now, though always under careful supervision, and Neal, who had already deemed him a prodigy, swore that Porter had said his name the other day.

"Well, it was something between Po and Port anyway," said Neal sheepishly after attempting to get Porter to repeat the sound for a skeptical Emma.

(She had no doubts that Porter was intelligent, she just knew that anything resembling words from their son's mouth were purely coincidental at this point.)

"Babies babble," she told him, rescuing Porter from his father only to steal him away to the sink for bath time. "Besides, _obviously_ his first word is gonna be _Mama."_

Porter clapped happily (because he actually liked the water) and Neal scowled in mock disbelief.

"It could be _Dada_ , _"_ Neal insisted as he laid out a towel in the effort to save the floor from Porter's enthusiastic splashing.

Emma raised a brow. "Twenty bucks?"

"You're on."

(Nothing came of it for a while.)

But, just as Emma had predicted, Porter's love of noise grew with him. He found endless entertainment in banging things together. Almost as much as he enjoyed dropping them. Sometimes, Emma thought, because he knew she would quickly retrieve it for him as he babbled away happily at her.

Watching all of this, knowing that her son hadn't become obviously stunted in her feeble care, slowly allowed Emma's worried tension to fade away. Just like Neal had said: It had gotten easier. Porter even slept through the night now.

(Well, most of the time.)

They discovered too that, like his parents, Porter seemed to love the car. But like his mother, he tended to hate the destination. And people. Porter had grown increasingly wary of anything new and, really, the only person he tolerated regularly (other than his parents, of course) was Maya. Even Joy got an earful until Emma rushed to his aid.

"Maya went through it too," said Joy when Emma worriedly admitted that Porter was obviously picking up on her trust issues. "It's just his way of saying I know you're not my Ma and I'm not gonna trust you until she gives the okay. Huh, little guy?"

Joy then offered him a wide smile but Porter merely stared stonily back at her.

All this made things like taking Porter with her while shopping even more of a chore. She would talk to him, a long boring list of what she had to get, and then shake boxes at him when she ran out of things to say. This distracted him nicely until the noise stopped, replaced by his unhappy whine. So Emma would wave the next item at him until his eyes turned wide with his budding curiosity, chubby arms stretching toward her, wanting the chance to hold the thing himself. If he got insistent enough, she would hand it off to him before they could disturb the other shoppers. And, just when it seemed like Porter was content to hold the box of whatever she would turn to get the next thing and _splat_ , off she went to retrieve the last one, apologizing profusely when he actually managed to throw something far enough to hit someone like that man in the leather jacket thumbing through packages of steak like a walking cliche.

This routine of sorts worked well. Well enough, anyway, until they reached the cash register and she actually had to divide her attention.

(And these days it got worse if someone on line tried to help her out by talking to him.)

Today, as per usual, the cashier announced the final price in a dull monotone and Emma straightened, pocketing a dropped pacifier to blink at the register announcing the grand total. Porter cried in earnest from the cart next to her while customers behind her grumbled unhappily.

"I had a coupon for the diapers," Emma murmured distractedly as she rummaged through her purse, pulling out an overused credit card, handing it over as the cashier hummed an acknowledgment, her expression bored. "Already scanned it."

As they waited, Emma did her best to distract Porter with _Puppy_ (who had not had the best day out) only to be met with the cashier's growing agitation.

"Um," said the woman, shoving the card back at her, looking the opposite of sympathetic. "Rejected."

Emma swallowed thickly and, tuning out the gossipy murmurs behind her, tried looking through her purse in the effort to rummage up the necessary cash. But she didn't have enough.

She looked at what she did have and then the items waiting to be taken home.

"Okay," she said, ignoring the growing warmth on her cheeks, absently running a hand over Porter's unruly locks in the effort to calm him. "Can you put back the, uh cookies and the cereal."

"I've got it."

Emma jumped, startled as a few bills, unsolicited, dropped down on the conveyor belt. And not just enough for the things she couldn't afford, but the whole lot of it. Immediately, she tried to gather them up and shove them back at the unshaven man (who _might_ have been assaulted by Porter earlier).

"I can't -" she stuttered, but he had already stepped out of her reach.

"Take it," he said and then, with an added dose of cryptic, "Let's say it's the least I can do."

He walked away. The cashier had already started to re-scan the items with an annoyed frown, the line of customers behind her growing longer and more unhappy by the minute. Emma waffled, wanting to tell her to stop because she didn't take charity, before, in spite of herself, she yelled after the man, "At least give me an address so I can pay you back."

He didn't even turn, merely waved behind him as he walked on and Emma couldn't exactly leave Porter to catch up to him.

She received an absurdly large amount in change, which just made her feel worse and she hurried out of the store, eyes scanning the parking lot because she could at least give _that_ back, but before she could even make it off the curb the sound of a motorcycle roaring past them startled Porter, distracting Emma from her search as she soothed her son and privately cursed reckless drivers.

She knew, of course, what this meant. Both she and Neal had avoided the topic, but as she packed their groceries into the back seat, the contents getting tossed around more than they usually would, Emma knew that she had to return to work. Meaning they would have to put Porter in child care.

Her stomach twisted with bitterness at the thought, but next time snacks might turn into meals and then meals would become diapers and formula.

She had known it would happen eventually, of course. Obviously, she did. She had just, maybe, hoped for more time.

Neal must have sensed this.

"We'll figure something else out," he promised her, "this was just a fluke."

And it was. Mostly. Joy had taken a look at their accounts and bills and Neal's not-so feeble paychecks and told them it wasn't so much lack of funds that had left her short on cash (though they weren't actually storing away any extra either), but more the whole still learning money management thing (for example, Neal tended to come home with gifts for Port more often than not). Maybe with an added case of bad math skills. She chided them for not keeping careful records, warned them to cut back on the splurging and non-essentials ("Yes," Joy told them, "even if it's for the baby."), and then helped them set up a more practical budget. But even then, guilt still lingered in Neal's expression, as if he had somehow failed them, and Emma shook her head because no. Fluke or not, it _was_ time. Neal shouldn't have to feel the weight of supporting all three of them forever.

Not that this stopped him from suggesting that he take that stupid job he had rightly turned down.

"You used your strike, remember," said Emma practically, suddenly appreciative of the baseball metaphor because, "You don't get those back."

So Emma would return to work. As soon as they found someone to watch Porter during the day. Daycare didn't have many options. None that they could afford anyway, but Neal produced a solution before she could make her way down the list.

"The Youth Center?" repeated Emma. "They have daycare?"

" _Free_ daycare," Neal stressed.

Not that Emma and Neal necessarily met the requirements (they weren't quite poor enough, apparently, and wasn't that a weird line they constantly straddled), but considering the fact that both of them, Neal especially, had become somewhat of a regular fixture there, Leo agreed that he would see if they could make an exception.

(Naturally Emma took this as a polite no, but he insisted that he simply needed to see if they actually had space for another kid.)

They lucked out, though Emma couldn't bring herself to feel particularly pleased at the prospect.

For one, the children at the daycare seemed abnormally sticky.

"Y'know, someday Port is gonna get sticky too," Neal pointed out, giving their son a playful poke and producing a joyous giggle. "In fact, I think he already is."

(Yes, somehow, Porter had managed to get purple _something_ all over his chin, cheeks, and hands, baffling Emma as to what Neal could have possibly done with him as she tried to throw their dinner together.)

She scoffed at the notion, producing a damp cloth to wipe Porter clean as he desperately tried to squirm out of her reach.

X-x-x-x-X

Daycare itself came with all sorts of trials and tribulations. Emma fretted over all the milestones she'd miss, for one, and whether it could be considered a form of neglect to leave their baby with complete strangers for _hours_. And then they had to deal with the matter of the other kids too. Stickiness aside, kids got sick and germs spread like wildfire.

It made certain things inevitable.

Like Emma forcing Neal awake with an uncharacteristically violent shake.

"He feels warm," she insisted fiercely at Neal's first signs of wakefulness and the genuine fear present in her voice took Neal from groggy to ready and alert in mere moments.

He felt his son's forehead and then promptly pushed himself out of bed. "I'll call the doctor."

Emma bounced Porter on her hip, trying to soothe him as she followed Neal out of the bedroom. "He's congested too. And that looks like a rash." She nodded to the side of the fridge, "The number should be under the take-out menus."

When the doctor answered on the third ring, sleep evident in his voice, Neal began to rattle off the symptoms, doing his best not to sound too panicked lest it get Emma even more worked up.

"Tell him his eyes look kind of glassy too," she said, somewhat distractedly as she tried to figure out how she might successfully clear Port's nose.

Neal repeated her words.

The doctor, however, failed to show the appropriate concern.

"Should we get the car ready?" Emma asked anxiously, a hand smoothing over Porter's unruly hair. Neal merely shook his head, listened for a few moments, offered a distracted _thanks_ _(_ which might have also been mildly sarcastic), and hung up the phone.

"Infant's Tylenol, fluids, monitor his temperature. If we want we can rinse him down with a cool wash cloth."

"But shouldn't he see a doctor?" Emma insisted and again, the _now_ went unspoken.

"He said we could take him first thing in the morning," said Neal, somewhat displeased but he searched for the medicine, reading the label carefully. "Should if the fever hasn't gone down."

Porter fussed when Neal tried to take him from Emma, hoping to give her a break, and she whispered more soothing noises before looking up. "What about the Emergency Room?"

Neal found the offer half-tempting, but refused to reach full-blown panic. Not yet. "Let's try the medicine first."

Eventually, after much encouragement and spilled teaspoons, they got Porter to swallow it. Though this didn't actually help him breath any better and Neal moved them into the bathroom, blasting the hot water until the mirrors turned foggy and they had, quite effectively, created a steam room.

"Clever," murmured Emma as he tried pressing a cool compress to his son's forehead, a task made needlessly difficult as, sniffing pitifully, Porter burrowed further and further against his mother's chest. He'd hoped, maybe, this meant he might be hungry and they'd get some fluids in him, but Emma's attempts to nurse him were met with a turned head and so eventually she took over the task of cooling him herself as Neal leaned back against the tub, his brow creased in worry.

Not long after Porter fell asleep, temperature already inching back toward normal, Emma stripped their bed, setting him in between them, refusing to leave him alone. Not that they slept.

(Emma worried that he might get worse and Neal couldn't with the baby in the bed because what if he accidentally rolled on top of him.)

But by morning, Porter's nose had cleared and his temperature, thankfully, had returned completely back to normal. They took him to the doctor's anyway who, despite seeing nothing visibly wrong with Porter, offered the same advice as the night before.

Neal, though, had to talk Emma out of yelling at the daycare administrators.

"They clearly weren't watching him closely enough," she insisted.

"Kids get sick, Emma," said Neal, feeling far more level-headed now that the threat had passed. "And it might not have been the daycare. He could have picked it up anywhere. Didn't you say that you had double duty because Gretchen was out with the flu?"

Emma huffed, turned on her heel, and then refused to talk to him the rest of the day despite his insistence that he really hadn't meant that he blamed her, just that it could have been from anything. But when she picked at her food, not at all enjoying her favorite side dish of mashed potatoes, Neal, who had started to get a headache, realized that maybe it wasn't him she was mad at.

(They had a bad habit, he realized, of never talking about the things that really bothered them until _after_ the fighting had already started.)

"It's not your fault he got sick, Emma, and it won't be your fault when it happens again," he told her later, when they settled into bed.

"I know," she mumbled.

"Do you?" he asked because he couldn't fathom why exactly her mood hadn't passed with Porter's fever.

He thought, maybe, she'd gone right back to ignoring him but then, just as he was ready to turn over and get some fucking sleep (his head was killing him), Emma asked, in nothing more than a whisper, "If you could do anything ... anything in the world ... what would you do?"

He thought about it a moment as he knew that's what she expected him to do (they had had variations of this conversation before) and then replied with a simple, " _This."_

He could practically hear the eye roll, "Yeah, but -"

Neal, however, had already figured out _exactly_ how to distract her from this particular line of thought.

"What would you do?"

She gaped like a fish and then deflated, letting out a huff of frustration and finishing it all off with a disgruntled, "This."

Because it was the truth. But Neal also got that if she had asked the _real_ question she had wanted him to answer ("Yeah. But anything _but_ this?") her own answer would fall in the same vein as his. _I don't know._

That bothered her. The uncertainty.

She thought it should bother him too, he supposed, but it didn't. _That's_ what worried her.

Before he could think of something to reassure her, however, he let out a sudden, violent sneeze.

(And then another.) (And another.)

Emma scrambled out of the bed, swearing as she tripped over the blankets.

"You're sick," she accused, untangling herself from the blanket before gathering Porter into her arms.

Immediately, he protested only to be betrayed by yet another sneeze as Emma hurriedly took Porter into the other, hopefully germ-free, room.

X-x-x-x-x-x-X

He was. _Sick._

And not only had Neal gotten sick, but whatever he had, had apparently turned him into a horrible grump too. He was snappy and whiny and had rudely complained about her chicken noodle soup (possibly because he had childishly requested ice cream or, maybe, because it really did suck). Emma changed the sheets and got softer tissues and better soup (she did _not_ give into the request for ice cream), and rubbed vapor rub on his chest. She did this and mentally calculated how she might hold this over him later because honestly, the way he went on and on, it was like he had never even had a cold before.

Thankfully, for all involved, he was better within the day and, after thoroughly decontaminating the bedroom and anything else Neal might have touched or breathed on, they moved the baby back into the bedroom and went on as normal. Emma had even forgotten what had been bothering her before the whole debacle had started.

Well. _Almost._

She hated her job. Like a lot.

"Well, naturally," agreed Joy one afternoon, over coffee, "but it's deciding what you _do_ like that's the problem."

True. Emma didn't like things. And the things she did like, well, they didn't exactly translate into anything that paid. They could. Possibly. But when she had, _briefly_ , toyed with the idea of finding the job in the youth counseling spectrum, she realized that almost anything in that vein involved things like a high school diploma and higher education and experience. To which she had exactly none. A thought that had sparked an idea that she had battled with long before she even considered bringing it up with Neal because it meant more work. _Too_ much.

(With, maybe, a small chance of long term benefits.)

She wanted to try.

And then a particularly disastrous afternoon that had bought her dangerously close to snapping at a customer about how some people had _real_ problems compared to his no pickle complaint gave her the push to actually voice as much.

"Neal," she began tentatively, turning to him during a commercial break for one of those old Westerns he liked. Porter was on his mat, positioned on his stomach, babbling as he grabbed at _Puppy_ and the rest of his toys, expertly pulling them towards him. "What would you think if I went for my G.E.D.?"

Neal turned the volume down and gave her a slightly confused look. "What?"

"My G.E.D.?" she repeated, and then, at his continued blank look, "my high school diploma."

( _Honestly._ Sometimes he could be a bit thick. Not stupid, she didn't mean that, but the things he didn't know and the things that he did downright baffled her sometimes.)

His eyes crinkled as he gave her a bright smile. "I think that'd be great."

Immediately, as if she had brought it up just so Neal could talk her out of it, she began to doubt the logistics of the idea.

"But do you think I'd have time for it. You know, with everything." The baby and their jobs kept them ridiculously busy. They barely had time for themselves and Emma had been forced to drastically cut back on the hours she spent at the center since starting back at the restaurant.

"We'd make time," he said as if it were really that simple. "You should put it on _Hope._ "

Emma groaned.

 _Operation Hope_ made things horribly daunting. But real. Even if it remained kinda (ridiculously) sparse. After their depressing assessment of it leading up to their makeshift holiday, Neal had attempted to fill it out by sticking all sorts of ridiculous things on the door. Things like grocery lists and pictures of clothes that he wanted to buy and even newspaper clippings of garage sales he wanted to hit over the upcoming weekend. And so they would go back and forth, debating what should actually classify something as board material.

Emma, for one, hadn't wanted _anything_ materialistic.

"A house is material, baby, don't you think. And it might be nice to have one day." She blinked. "Maybe even better furniture."

A house sounded like this impossible thing to Emma and putting it on the board, letting themselves hope for it seemed like it would inevitably lead to disappointment.

"That's the point of it though, isn't it?" Neal questioned. "A place to put our hopes and dreams until we can."

She hesitated, waffling, knowing that if she agreed then Neal would take that as a yes and run with it. But she also knew, at the very least, they would eventually have to move into a bigger apartment. Someplace where Porter would have his own room (and they wouldn't have to sneak off to the living room whenever they wanted to have sex). Maybe even a yard where he could play.

(Thinking that far into the future though? It always led to disappointment.)

"Yeah, maybe," she agreed, somewhat reluctantly, "a house might be nice. _Someday._ "

Neal grinned and searched old magazines, cutting out the first decent picture of a house he could find. Emma immediately protested when she saw it on the refrigerator door.

"Not that house," she said, ripping it down. "I don't want _that_ house. We can't just use a picture of a house that isn't ours."

She would continue to insist on that.

Neal, after rolling his eyes, wrote out _house_ on a flashcard before Emma shook her head and replaced it with _home_ and finally, it had gone up on the fridge. Then they followed it up with _better furniture_ almost immediately because both agreed that they didn't want to eat off patio furniture or sit in an itchy orange recliner (that had started to squeak) _forever._

It forced Emma's hand and she agreed that, maybe, _certain_ material things did belong on _Hope_. "But nothing we can buy right now," she finished firmly. "This isn't for grocery lists."

They could afford food (most days) and even new pants. Just, maybe, not really expensive pants. And Neal had no reason to wear really expensive pants anyway. In fact, he hated getting dressed up.

(Though Emma had discovered that he looked absolutely delicious in a suit.)

But under Neal's watchful eye, going for her G.E.D. went up on _Hope_ , though she didn't actually do anything toward accomplishing the goal. Not at first. She wasn't _avoiding_ it, but there was the matter of her other, far more pressing priorities. She had work and the center and, naturally, she couldn't sacrifice any more time with Porter than her busy schedule already forced her to.

And then she got sick.

This awful thing. It was like whatever Port and Neal and Gretchen had somehow aligned, teaming up and creating some sort of super virus, leaving Emma miserable and confined to bed for the better part of a week. And even then, after she began to feel better, Neal forced her to take the weekend.

"To recover," he explained, bringing an unhappy Porter back into the room and immediately they reached for each other after a week apart.

" _And_ ," he continued, exiting the room and returning with a ratty old backpack that looked suspiciously weighed down. "You can get a start on your studies."

Emma pouted, cuddling Porter nice and tight against her, "But I'm sick."

Neal raised a brow. "Well then, if you're still sick, Porter should probably head back to the living room."

Emma tightened her grip and Porter, she swore, gave his father a suspicious look.

(It had been a long seven days for the both of them.)

Reluctantly, she pulled a book towards her. "If I study," she started carefully, "can Porter stay."

Neal pulled out a picture book with lots of bright colors and textured pictures. "Only if he studies too."

She reached for him then, tugging him onto the bed with them. After all, if Emma and Porter were really going to knuckle down and hit the books, they'd need their favorite teacher there to help them.


	14. Choices

**Chapter 14: Choices**

"Let's go to the library," suggested Neal.

Emma offered him a wry, teasing look, "Y'know you actually have to return the books, right? They _will_ charge you."

"Funny." Neal tugged Porter into shoes and a coat and then handed Emma a flier. "Leo mentioned they've got some fun stuff for the kiddies. I thought we could check it out."

"Oh," Emma clapped and smiled widely at Porter, "a puppet show."

The Youth Center was great and all but daycare was daycare and while Elmo and friends distracted Porter when he and Emma needed all hands on deck, they both had agreed that they didn't want Port's only source of brightly colored characters and catchy, annoying tunes to be experienced through a television screen.

Besides, Neal _liked_ the library. That's where he had spent a ridiculous chunk of that first year after Neverland, desperately trying to make sense of a world that had vastly changed since he had landed on it nearly a hundred years prior. He had mostly stuck to the stacks, pulling books randomly from the shelf, finding whatever interested him that day before settling into a dark corner, drinking everything in until the librarian came and kicked him out. Eventually, he got all the necessities (fake IDs and library cards) to take the books with him, but he'd had a tendency to attract trouble back then and would often find himself skipping town before he could actually return anything.

He learned a lot that way, contributing to the odd collection of facts Emma liked to tease him about. But without a syllabus to guide him, Neal had eventually realized that his best chance at survival would have to come through good old-fashioned trial and error. That method, however, would not help someone like Emma hoping to pass a standardized test. So if Neal happened to have an ulterior motive, such as swinging by the stacks with all the study guides, then he saw no reason to mention it just yet. Getting Emma to fully commit to this whole G.E.D. thing had been a constant case of push and pull, causing Neal to question if it had even really been her idea in the first place.

(It had been, which meant she wanted it, and Neal refused to let her doubt that.)

They sat through the show, Porter clapping happily from his mother's lap, before Neal whisked them away to a previously staked out row. Emma squinted at titles through her glasses before groaning, " _Neal."_

He pretended not to notice her unhappy expression and announced, quite brightly. "I'm gonna take Porter to the kid's section."

When they returned, ready for lunch an hour later, Emma was exactly where he'd left her. "Any luck?"

She merely shrugged and so he suggested, "We can take them with us." He bumped her shoulder with his. "I even promise to return them on time."

"Won't help," murmured Emma, tucking Porter into his coat.

"We can try the main branch." It was farther away, but they'd probably have a wider selection.

"Just forget it."

The snappiness of the reply attracted the glare of the librarian and it wasn't until three more days of _not_ forgetting it, that Emma finally admitted the problem.

"I'm not smart enough."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Neal and then, when she insisted and he realized that she really, truly believed this, he added, "Well, of course you don't understand it. You have no one to teach you."

Neal _tried_ to help her, but despite the progress he'd been making as a teacher in his own classes, none of that involved math or history or English and so study sessions together only made them both frustrated.

(And, sometimes, oddly satisfied because inevitably Emma would avoid the books by distracting him with sex.)

And so again Emma decided to call it quits.

Neal scoffed. "Now what sort of example would that set for Porter?"

"He'll be thrilled," Emma accepted a toy that Porter had crawled over to give her, "all the attention will be back on him."

"The woman I fell in love with doesn't give up," she rolled her eyes, "and I'm not gonna let you start now."

He had, hopefully, realized the problem to. While Emma had no good reason to avoid going for her G.E.D. (other than, maybe, a small admissions fee, it wasn't even that expensive), she also had nothing but her own goals and desires to motivate her. And those were shaky at best, constantly deterred by her own waffling self-esteem and (what she considered) more pressing priorities. So he called in reinforcements, hiring a tutor. One of the younger volunteers he had met down at the Youth Center looking to make some extra cash.

"We can't afford a tutor, Neal," she insisted, but he shook his head, refusing to back down (or let Emma scare her off, insisting that he would pay the girl whether Emma chose to study or not).

"For this we can."

The expert hand helped, granting alternative explanations and methods for whatever Emma just didn't quite get. And adding money to the mix did exactly what he had intended it to do, providing Emma with enough motivation to actually try because otherwise the whole thing would turn to waste. She studied hard, learning all sorts of interesting things like Trig and American History and the make-up of a cell. Sometimes, Neal would just sorta linger, eavesdropping, picking up all sorts of things that he wouldn't have possibly come across on his own.

Alongside them, Porter was like a sponge, learning and taking things in, hitting some very important milestones of his own. He worked with a fierce determination, trying again and again whenever he didn't get the exact result he wanted and not stopping until he succeeded. He'd topple over until he stood up on shaky legs, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of the orange recliner, grinning happily as Emma and Neal, hovering from just behind him, cheered him on. His excited babble turned into actual words too, the smile Emma shot in Neal's direction both smug and awe-struck when he said, "Mama," for the first time, marking Port's very first word and costing Neal a crisp twenty dollar bill.

(Totally worth it.)

(And, in all fairness, Porter's first, "Dada," followed soon after.)

Neal helped out as much as he could, doing dishes and watching Porter every night after dinner so that Emma could pour over paper and books. But while his nine-to-five job remained fairly static, his responsibilities at the Youth Center continued to steadily expand, something that had started with him filling in for Karen and her art class.

Karen's class (or Mrs. Hicks as the students called her) was much larger than his and her students, for the most part, were quite serious about their individual projects. And so, at first, his presence had been met with suspicious disappointment and then, when he announced that he really was just there to hold down the fort, a lot of resigned sighing. Because apparently, the center was holding an art show at the end of the month and they were working on their showcase. They did not have time for incompetence and so Neal made it a point to stay out of the way for as long as he could. Mostly that left him with clean-up, assurances that the art show was still going on as planned, and diverting catastrophe whenever little Sammy got far too enthusiastic with the scissors.

It left him with an awful lot of down time and so while the kids worked he would sketch between the pieces of praise he would dole out whenever someone asked his opinion.

(They were really very talented.)

"But Mr. Neilson," noted Jane (age thirteen, self-portrait), and Neal's head snapped up to find her squinting at his paper, canvas clutched in her hand, "you can draw."

Neal cleared his throat as a sea of heads snapped to attention. "And that's a perfect nose. You can fix mine."

"Your nose is fine," Neal insisted, quite genuine as he looked over the picture she had shoved onto the desk In fact, he would say that Jane was much farther along than he'd been at her age.

"But yours is better."

Todd (age twelve, pop art) got to his feet to have a look. "Definitely better."

Jane swatted at him, forcing Neal to chide them both.

"Is that Miss Swan?" asked Heather (age thirteen, still life) excitedly, hopping up and down in the effort to see above the taller kids in front of her. "It is, isn't it?"

The class oohed and ahhed and then asked even more questions and it took Neal, his cheeks red, several minutes to get them to calm down.

Sammy (age 9, collage) was the last to speak, "My parents are coming, Mr. Neilson."

And Neal knew this was a big deal for Sammy who had been stuck in foster care for the last six months. A lot of these kids had stories like that. So he did his best, going from desk to desk giving the kids pieces of advice between copious amounts of praise, revealing his own untested practice methods when he could (but always refusing to do the work for them), everyone working until parents and guardians and bus schedules started calling the students away.

After that day they always asked, almost eagerly it seemed, if he'd be back next week.

"Maybe," said Neal, almost hopeful himself, "if Mr. Rosenberg still needs the help."

And he did.

This ultimately raised him to two classes and the occasional baseball game (and a copious amount of practice. He had improved. Somewhat. He could hit the ball and he was very good at running (especially if he pretended he was running for his life), but he was still working on the whole throwing and catching thing.

(Leo would take him to the occasional Marlins game whenever he had the extra ticket and Neal found the sport at its most riveting when he didn't actually have to play.)

And then, after one very intense game, Leo took him for drinks, ushering him into a corner booth, looking unusually nervous, as if they were about to perform some undercover operation.

"A while back we received a fairly ... generous donation," Leo had unpocketed an envelope and started to empty out the contents. "No one thought much of it, really, until they took a closer look at the note attached."

Leo handed everything over and Neal unfolded a note that had been written - no, typed - on some pretty fancy stationary. Leo tapped the date in the corner.

Neal blinked.

"That's Emma's birthday." He peered at the date closer and did some quick math. "That's her twenty-eighth birthday."

"I asked Emma," now Leo pointed out the names and address printed in the corner, "about her ... If she had any other family. She said she didn't."

"She was found abandoned on the side of a highway." Neal couldn't bring himself to muster his usual amount of anger at this fact - he was too busy reading and rereading the names _Mr. and Mrs. Bennett Swan._ "But these were the people ... They were gonna adopt her."

Leo looked apologetic, "We had already cashed the check before we noticed anything odd. We put together thank-you notes, you know, but the address isn't current. And, as you can imagine, the phone number isn't either."

Neal grunted, eyes fixed on the note. The body of the letter containing only one line, the odd unevenness of the font hinting at the use of an old type writer, the words reading: _Because every child deserves a happy ending._

Something about the words made his skin crawl.

Neal nodded across the table. "Is that the envelope it came in?"

"Yeah," Leo slid it across the table, "but it won't tell you much. The guy dropped it off personally." He cleared his throat. "You met him actually. Allan said you brought him down to the office. Young guy. Leather jacket."

 _Fuck._

"But that couldn't have been Bennett." Neal hadn't thought to take a thorough study of the guy or anything, but he had a pretty good handle on the age range at least. "He wasn't much older than me or Emma."

"No," Leo agreed, pulling out a photograph. "But that's him, right?" Neal studied the image and then offered a fairly confident nod. "That was the only time he showed up on the security tapes. Not before and nothing since."

Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated and desperate in his attempt to reach some sort of conclusion about what all of this could mean.

"What do I do? I mean," he looked at Leo somewhat helplessly. "Do I tell Emma?" Leo must not think so or else he would have just gone to her first. Right? "These people. They broke her heart."

Leo pressed his lips together in a grim line. "That's really up to you. You know her best. Though John?" Neal raised an eyebrow. "I get that it's weird. But for what it's worth, I don't think it's a threat."

Neal snorted but Leo remained serious.

"What is it then?"

"An apology."

(Well, screw that.)

Neal sat on it for days, studying the note whenever he got a moment alone. The same thing he had done with Porter's ultrasound. But instead of hope and love, he only felt dread and revulsion, making it impossible for him to find any sense in Leo's words. Because where Leo saw an apology, Neal only saw cruel mockery, taunting Emma with the fact that even though they had failed to grant her the happy ending they had promised, they would generously try giving it to complete strangers.

(Because these people would _think_ money solved everything.)

Ultimately, it didn't matter what he thought. Neal _knew_ that. But he still feared telling her, worried that this would hit Emma, tapping into that part of her he still hadn't fully reached, causing her to shut down and snap walls back into place, regressing when she'd already come so far.

 _Why_ did she have to know? _What_ difference could it possibly make?

There was only one other person (besides Emma) that could, maybe, answer those questions.

Joy studied the note quite thoroughly before offering him a critical look, "I'm not going to give you permission to hide this from her."

"But if it hurts her -"

"Lying will hurt her," a tense beat, the kettle ringing in the background, "because she trusts you. But you already know that."

Neal ran a shaky hand through wild curls and said, almost accusingly "You didn't know her before."

"I didn't," Joy agreed, pouring them both coffee, "but I also know enough. I saw her fall apart and I've watched her grow. And I think what you need to do now, John, is trust what you've built with her."

Neal furrowed his brow worriedly, "So you really think she can handle it?"

Joy smiled and handed him a mug, "She's strong and I think she deserves the chance to prove that."

It wasn't that Neal didn't think Emma was strong and he was certainly well aware of how far she'd actually come, he just didn't see the point of causing her unnecessary pain.

Joy, apparently, disagreed. "What is it that you're _really_ afraid of here, John?"

Her words haunted him the whole ride home.

He wanted to protect Emma. He would _always_ want to protect Emma. That much was certain. And he could do that, he thought, without actually doubting her. But beyond that? Something about the note - the mysterious sender, the odd date, the cryptic (possibly mocking) message - didn't sit right with him still, turning his stomach and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. However peculiar Neal found it though would still pale in comparison to Emma, who would be downright suspicious. She'd want answers and, at the very least, would want to know how they had found her.

Except, as he'd observed and Joy pointed out, Emma had changed.

So maybe she would just see what Leo did. A veiled apology. And then, maybe, she would want to find them. To what? Confront them? To forgive them?

Why did that thought scare him more than anything else?

Fuck. He _had_ to take the advice Joy had given him. He had to trust what they had built together. It would be selfish not to. And so he would tell her. He would tell Emma everything and he would do so with a copious amount of food to accompany him. And he would do it because not telling her would surely test her faith in him, driving her away faster than, say, her picking another family over him.

(He didn't really think that she would do that.) (Not rationally.) (But there was a track record in his own history that said maybe he should.) (And he absolutely could not let that fear guide him.)

He took an afternoon off and made a special dinner, putting together all of Emma's favorites after dropping Porter of at Joy and Maya's for the evening. She took in the spread excitedly, at first, and then suspiciously when she remembered that they had no special occasions to mark.

"What's this for?" she asked, eyes narrowed. "Where's Porter?"

"Joy's," he said and then gestured that they should sit. Emma did so cautiously and Neal pushed a mug of hot chocolate, made just the way she liked it, in her direction.

"The Youth Center got a donation," Neal murmured, taking out both the note and the security picture, "a pretty big one."

"Okay," said Emma slowly.

"The thing is Leo realized that the donor had a connection," he looked at her sympathetically and passed along the evidence, "to you."

Emma smiled like she didn't quite believe such a thing was possible and then took the note, looked at it, and then dropped it before pushing her chair away from the table.

She looked at him accusingly and, like a reflex, asked, "Is this a joke?"

"Of course not. Emma," She climbed to her feet and started to pace, "I never told anyone about them. Least not until Leo showed me the note."

"So they found me?" Confusion set in the lines around her eyes. "How? Why?"

"Well, you never changed you name." Emma gave him her best _seriously_ look and Neal knew now was not the time to be glib. "Did they ever mention anything about your birthday?"

Emma gave a dry look, "Other than that whole promising to adopt me thing?"

He picked up the discarded note and pointed out the date to her, "That's years from now still. You'll be twenty-eight."

She stared at the date and then took the note and studied it some more, her features taking on an array of emotions. From confusion to heartache to the set lines of suppressed fury until it finally settled on something he didn't quite recognize.

She ripped the note in halfs. And then again. And again.

"Emma -"

"I don't like games, Neal, and I'm definitely not interested in riddles, " She shredded the note until it had turned into confetti. She took the security picture and, without looking at it, did exactly the same, dumping it all in the trash. "You should go get Porter." She tied off the garbage bag and shoved it in his hands. "Take that with you."

Neal's fingers closed around the handles, gripping it tightly, glued to the spot even as Emma turned away, unlidding Tupperware and clearing the table. There were things that he should say. Things that he had practiced. Important things. Because, however, misguided the attempt, the Swans were attempting to do the one thing that Emma thought not to be true. They were telling her that they cared. Weren't they? Leo certainly seemed to think so and Neal liked to believe the best in people. But even if it was a game like Emma thought, he should still tell her that she was loved. She had become a beloved fixture at the center. Joy and Leo, each in their own ways, believed in her. Porter idolized her. And words could not describe the depth of what he felt for her.

She should know that.

"Neal," said Emma sharply and Neal blinked, looking up at her as Emma scraped untouched food into plastic containers, "The baby."

"Yeah." He shook his head. "Yeah. But Em, Joy said she could -"

"Yeah, I'm sure she did -"

"- We should talk about this, baby."

Emma sighed and walked toward him, taking his face in his hands. "We have talked about this. Remember? Surprise birthday on the beach. I worked out everything I needed to then. You helped. End of story. No one gets to reopen it. " She gestured vaguely. "So if they want to try and clear their conscience then let 'em. I don't care."

Emma couldn't will this away, he knew that, but he feared the consequences of pushing it too far, too quickly. And he didn't have too. Right? There was no looming threat. The man in the photo came and went, no one had bothered Emma personally, and the out-of-date phone number and address made things all too clear. They didn't want to be contacted.

Maybe his instincts had been right, after all.

Neal furrowed his brow. "Should I not have told you?"

"You shouldn't have made such a big thing about it." She rolled her eyes and let out a big, heavy-sounding sigh. "Honestly? This is ... It hurts, Neal. Okay. It makes me angry that they think they can just come in and try and pull this shit now. But it's not ..." She made wild, sweeping gestures with her arms.

"All-consuming?"

She nodded. "That hole they helped my so-called parents dig? It's been filled, Neal. By you and Porter and everything else we have here." She looked down at him over her glasses quite pointedly. "Which is why I would really like to see my son now."

Neal laughed, relief easing tense muscles. "Joy said I should trust what we've built."

"Well, that's very good advice. And hey," she shrugged. "At least the center got some money out of all this, right? That's something."

"Something," echoed Neal, he freed a hand to squeeze hers and then kissed her forehead. "I love you."

She smiled and walked him to the door. "Love you."

There was every possibility that she simply needed time to process and was just using Porter as an excuse to get him out of the apartment without protest. He wouldn't blame her for that. But he also didn't think it was anything less than wanting to hold their son or anything more than the usual space she typically requested when trying to process the big and emotional.

Which was probably why Neal was so surprised to find the apartment empty when he finally returned with Porter.

X-x-x-x-X

Leo called, not five minutes after Neal had left, and asked if she could come down to the Youth Center as soon as possible.

"Not tomorrow," he said following Emma's promise that she would see him first thing in the morning, "More like now."

The topic of the evening had her on edge and so her grip on the phone tightened as she asked, somewhat suspiciously, "Why?"

Leo sighed audibly. "There's a young woman here who wants to talk to you. And only you."

Emma blinked and then swallowed another _why._ So either she had seriously pissed someone off or they actually thought she had the know-how.

Or they were a her long-lost , maybe, almost family.

(She didn't like any of those options.)

"Who?" she asked instead, as she slipped into her shoes.

"Her name is Lucy," She heard the sound of rustling and then Leo's voice lowered to a whisper, "She seems pretty upset. So if -"

Emma cut him off, "I'll be right there."

She took a cab. It was an expense that she and Neal didn't typically spring for, but he had the bug and, between earlier with _whatever_ and nerves about what to expect now, Emma very much lacked the patience for the bus. So she scribbled out a quick note for Neal and headed to the Youth Center, getting directed to her desk where a girl sat, waiting, hands rubbing up and down frayed jeans, her knee bobbing up and down with nervous energy.

A lot of kids came through the counseling center. Some came once or twice a week because they wanted to or because someone else told them they had to. Others showed up and said what they had to say and got the advice they needed to hear and then never came back. Some were petulant and others were super chatty, but most just really needed someone that would listen.

Lucy had fallen into the one and done category, coming in fresh off a move to a new foster home and sent by her social worker because she wouldn't talk to anyone else.

Emma bit the pad of her thumb and looked nervously at Marge. "What I'd do?"

The advice she had given hadn't been particularly earth shattering. Mostly because it hadn't been advice at all, just obvious understanding. Because Emma had been there. She knew the options and none of them were appealing for a then fifteen year old. But she must have screwed it up somehow, the girl worse off than before, fingers pointed to Emma with blame for whatever else had turned deeper south in Lucy's life.

Marge gave her an half-amused look, "Now why would you think that?"

 _That_ didn't help and Emma desperately tried to pull something from their talk that could help her prepare (in the short walk between the entrance and the cubicle), but the details blurred together, nothing standing out. Lucy had a sucky situation, yeah, but nothing that would set off the usual alarm bells.

"Hey." Emma offered a smile that she hoped didn't put her nerves and discomfort on full display as she settled into the chair across from Lucy.

"Sorry for -" Lucy finished with a vague gesture.

Emma merely waved it off. "I had a whole list of things I was avoiding anyway. This just gives me an excuse."

Not that she'd been avoiding the ... _whatever._ Neal clearly thought she wasn't dealing, and maybe she wasn't, but once the initial knee-jerk reaction of anger and fear and hurt had subsided, only a very dull buzz of annoyance had been left behind and Emma simply wasn't feeling particularly chuffed about going over the whens and the whys of that particular development.

Jenna replied with an awkward nod, "I just didn't know where else to go."

"You can _always_ come here."

She thought it at least once a day, for one reason or another, but a place like this really would have done Emma a world of good as a kid.

"I screwed up."

"I'd be rich, you know, if I had a nickel for every time I said those exact words." Lucy looked like she might crack a smile, but mostly she just looked kinda queasy and so Emma switched back to serious. "Do you wanna tell me what happened?"

Lucy didn't say anything at first and then she let out a shaky breath. "It's so big."

She didn't elaborate and Emma knew better than to try and pull the words out of her. But teenager? It could mean any number of things. What, Emma had realized a long time ago, didn't always have to matter.

She leaned forward, cocking her head, trying to catch Lucy's eye despite her bowed head. "It's never too late, Lucy."

Alarmed, Lucy looked up, eyes wide and scared like a deer caught in the headlights. "What?"

"It's never too late to turn your life around. You just have to want it. Find something you want, more than anything, preferably legal," Lucy's lips twitched, "and go after it."

"I don't know. It's -"

She pushed forward to the edge of her chair, her knees stopping just shy of bumping into Lucy's, and whispered, "Two years ago I was homeless, alone, stealing just to get by. And now I've got this guy. We moved here, got jobs and we have this amazing kid that I love more than anything. I'm even studying for my G.E.D. And we did it all by ourselves." She could never tell Neal what she was about to say because the smug idiot would never let her live it down, but, "Anything is possible."

It wasn't hope, but something remarkably like it sparked in Lucy's expression, "You have a kid?"

Emma smiled tightly, understanding finally dawning. "Yeah."

And just like that the details started to trickle out. Just newly sixteen, stuck in the foster system, baby on the way. Alone. The guy, who really didn't sound like someone Lucy should want around anyway, bolted soon as the baby became a possibility.

Emma didn't sugarcoat things for her because she wasn't naive enough to think that just because something worked for her that meant it would surely work for someone else. Lucy's situation wasn't ideal, but she still had options. A whole list of them and Emma had a well of knowledge that she could share on each, the subject one that she had studied and pondered thoroughly as she struggled through the decision.

"The important thing to remember is that you have time," Emma murmured sometime later as Lucy clutched pamphlets and torn pieces of paper with numbers on them (her cell included). "And you can call me if you have questions. Or just wanna talk. _Anytime."_

Lucy responded by throwing her arms around Emma, murmuring a tear-filled thank-you somewhere near her ear and Emma thought, maybe, she hadn't done a completely horrible job.

She had spent months and months fretting over what she could actually do with her G.E.D. once she got it. There were so many things to consider beyond just the simple question of _what_ she wanted to do. Because she didn't want to completely miss out on raising Porter, but if something didn't sound time consuming then everything sounded too boring or too hard and just not _her._ Emma had reached a point where she had begun to seriously worry about her obvious lack of interests and talents.

She just ... didn't like things.

Well, except Porter and Neal obviously. And there was Joy and Maya now. And, well, the Youth Center. Leo was pretty much alright, she supposed, so long as he wasn't conspiring with Neal behind her back.

(And, okay, maybe the list was longer than she'd thought.)

"Of course you like things, Em," Neal told her after she had complained hopelessly on the matter, "you're just juggling a dozen different plates. Most students only have the one."

Obviously Neal had a skewed memory of high school because the kids she remembered had done everything - homework and clubs and sports. But Neal still had a point. For most people, school would always come first, but Emma had work and Porter - her very adult responsibilities - and they would always remain her number one priority.

This direction? The youth counseling thing? She had toyed with it before. In a _yeah, right_ sort of way because as fulfilling as she found volunteering, she still lacked the qualifications and still worried about whether or not she was actually doing anyone any good.

But maybe tonight was, like, one of those signs Neal liked to go on about?

"Marge," It was hesitant because this would obviously go down as one of her more ridiculous ideas. But Marge didn't even force her to get the words out. She just handed her a stack of brochures as she wore a knowing smile.

"I think it's a great idea." She sounded pleased.

Emma gave a distracted nod as she thumbed through the various leaflets before snapping her attention back to Marge, feeling an odd mix of both doubt and hope. "Did she really ask for me?"

It probably didn't mean much. Just that she was familiar or whatever. But it felt like _something._

"She really did."

Her lips twitched despite herself.

When she got home, well past Porter's bedtime, she found Neal sitting in the orange recliner, eyes bloodshot and the television on mute. She dropped her keys in the bowl and quietly noted, "It's late. You should have gone to bed."

But he was in arms before she could finish, hugging her, clinging to her tightly in a way that caused her to furrow her brow in worry. "You got my note didn't you?"

"Yeah," he ran a hand through his hair, "Yeah I found it. I dunno. It was just ... Earlier, y'know." He shrugged. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"We've been over this," she reminded him, treading lightly, wishing for his typical airiness after a very heavy day, "It's a rule. If I leave then I take the kid with me."

He frowned but she could see the beginnings of a amusement tugging on his lips. "That's _not_ the rule."

"No," Emma grinned, "but I'd still take him." She tugged on his hand, pulling him back to the recliner. "Come here."

He sat down, pulling her with him. "Everything alright at the center?"

She couldn't really get into the specifics, but he knew that. "It's gonna be a day by day thing, I think, but I realized something. And it's why you shouldn't worry."

Neal ducked his head, "It's a me thing, baby. I _know_ you wouldn't -"

She clapped her hand over his mouth. "A part of you does though and at least a fraction of that is on me. But here's the thing, babe. Everything I've been through ... the pain and the loneliness. The constant shuffling around and the stupid life of crime ... it's made me who I am. It got me _here_ , with you and Porter, and I know I worry about the details and the what ifs and all these things that you think are just ridiculous, but I like it _here,_ Neal. I promise you that."

His fingers circled around her wrist and he kissed her palm softly before he lowered her hand revealing a soft smile.

"Okay." He seemed to get it, at least, but she wasn't done.

" _Yeah_ , it is. Because I realized that I can't change any of that, even if I wanted to, but I can use it. I can take what I've been through and what I've learned from it and I _can_ use it to help other people. And if I can do that ... if I can somehow make their experiences even just a fraction easier than what it would have been then that's ... that's something I want to do."

She shifted, pulling the folded up brochures out of her back pocket. "And I know that it'll involve school and that school costs money and time ..."

"We can figure that stuff out. Like scholarships," he promptly suggested and Emma returned his look with one of her own because yeah right, like she could ever get a scholarship. "Loans." Emma really didn't want to go into debt over this, but Neal had already taken the brochure and moved into the kitchen, sticking it on the fridge with the rest of _Operation Hope_. "We'll figure it out as we go. Whatever it takes. Because it's something you want."

Maybe she should have taken it down. She stared at it long enough, considering it. Especially since she hadn't even taken the G.E.D. yet and at the rate she was going she might never pass. The road certainly wouldn't be as simple as the one Neal had painted, but he _had_ gotten one thing right: She really did want it.


	15. The Art Show

**Chapter 15: The Art Show**

Nothing came of her admission for a while. There was the matter of the looming G.E.D., of course, and then the necessity of work and finally the most important thing of all - Porter and his very first birthday.

They kept it a small affair, inviting Joy and Maya, Leo, and even Gretchen and Mark from work. They had cake, Porter getting it all over his face and hands and the surrounding furniture while Emma waited, ready and armed with napkins and a damp wash cloth, wiping the delightfully squirmy baby off as Neal laughed, snapping photos. But she couldn't have stopped the impending stickiness and sugar high any more than Neal's obvious crusade to thoroughly spoil their son. More stuffed animals found their way into his collection, he got push toys to help with wobbly legs, baby drums and rattles to encourage his growing love of music, brightly colored blocks, and Pop Warhol's Top - a board book with thick pages and plenty of modern art.

Immediately, Porter neglected all of this in favor of a box.

(Really. He loved the box.)

Another New Year arrived, Neal was recruited to run the center's art show that Spring, and Emma's tutor, a seventeen year-old named Lisa with the desire to change the world and a clear-cut plan for her future, praised Emma's progress, announcing that, _finally,_ she was more than ready to take her G.E.D.

Emma didn't feel nearly as confident but she took the test that March anyway and then waited on pins and needles for the ridiculously slow arrival of her results.

She passed and Neal marked the occasion by taking her out to dinner. They left Porter with Joy and Maya for the evening and Neal spent most of their time out telling her just how proud of her he was and how amazing it was to think about where they had started just a few years ago and then to look at them now.

"But it feels like I'm more excited about this than you," he noted.

"I'm excited," she said defensively and at his skeptical look, she became insistent. "I am."

Well, okay, she had started that way at least. Proud too. But her sense of accomplishment had faded quickly when Emma realized that even if she now had her high school diploma (or G.E.D., _whatever)_ she still had a hell of a lot work to do and a number of potential roadblocks to navigate before she got where she _really_ wanted to be.

Neal squeezed her hand, probably armed with some words of encouragement, but just as Emma opened her mouth, ready to share her frustrations, her phone rang and she snapped it closed, attention diverted.

It was Lucy. She was having the baby.

Neal drove her to the hospital, dropping her off at the entrance.

They had never talked about it, what Lucy was going through, though the inevitable visual clues meant that he had picked up on the basic gist of the situation without a single word. The silent support had been a comfort when Lucy had ultimately decided that she wouldn't be keeping the baby. Something that had hit Emma harder than it maybe should have and she had come home and stared at Porter asleep in his crib until tears stained her cheeks as she tried to imagine what life would be without him.

"Thank you," Emma had told Neal from tight in his embrace and he kissed her shoulder.

"For what?"

"Everything," she had whispered, but really, "staying."

When the time came Lucy decided not to hold the baby, turning her head pointedly when the doctor suggested it, determined to not even catch a glimpse of her daughter. And while Emma couldn't imagine never setting eyes on her son, she understood what Lucy must have been thinking in that moment. She wrapped her arms around her, letting her cry into her shoulder, removing what must have been a horrible temptation as Lucy clung to her, heart-wrenching sobs wracking her body, the only sound remaining as they wheeled the baby down the hall.

"Tell me again." Lucy demanded later, tugging on a red curl she unknowingly passed onto her daughter. They had gone over this several times now, almost like a ritual.

Emma smiled softly. "She'll go to a home where she'll have a family. She'll be loved and happy and safe. _Always."_

"And they found her a family?" Lucy asked, half-desperate. "A good one?"

Emma nodded. "In Maine, I think." Technically speaking, she wasn't supposed to know that information, let alone divulge it, but Emma found that solid facts were far more comforting than vague truths. "She'll never know the inside of a foster home."

A shadow crossed Lucy's face. "Good."

It was brave, Emma realized, what Lucy had done. Because it took just as much courage to admit that, maybe, you're not enough as it did to face down your fears and insecurities. Emma had done it once. She had kept her son and it was both the best and bravest thing she'd ever done.

So maybe it was time to be brave again.

A lot of work went into, first, finding a college with a program that would help Emma work around her already hectic schedule, and then putting together the applications. Something which Emma thought made her look horribly pathetic. What? With her whole history laid out in front of her, a stack of too many schools and mostly (less than) average test scores. But she had a whole list of people helping her too. Neal, of course, who had taken her essay and, with his expert bullshitting skills, managed to make her sound much more impressive.

"It's all you," he told her when she commented on this, "just with an extra shot of confidence."

Joy and Gretchen from work volunteered for Porter duty when she got down to the wire and she even found herself with plenty of recommendation letters, Leo and Marge and a few others from the Youth Center all adding theirs to the pile.

"We've built something," she said as if she had just realized it, sounding perplexed but touched, addressing an envelope with a careful hand. "Friends. A life. I like it."

Neal grinned. "Me too."

She still had a number of decisions to make though, including what, exactly, she wanted to focus her studies on. She had, mostly, decided that she wanted to work with children. Helping troubled youth or whatever. She had assumed youth counselor _obviously,_ butthen, after thoroughly investigating the leaflets Marge had handed her, she did some more research and found psychology and teaching too (though she ruled out the latter almost immediately). Social workers and case workers made the list, though just the idea of it made her skin crawl. Because look at how little they had done for her and she hated the thought of somehow turning into that if she joined the obviously broken system. A system a single person couldn't ever hope to fix.

And then she found it.

"Youth advocate?" repeated Neal, brow furrowed.

Emma nodded, an anxious look on her face.

"What's that exactly?" he asked, eyes scanning the paper she had handed him.

"It's like support for kids. Like us back when," said Emma, "you know, kids that don't have a proper family and need help with the legal system or a mediator with, uh, certain authority figures or whatever. I'd go to bat for them."

Neal smiled softly. "That's you, Em."

Emma bit her lip. "Yeah?"

"I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have on my side." And, just to make sure that he drove the point home, he added, "It's time someone stepped up and started evening the playing field. Why _not_ you?"

She tried not to think about that question. She'd just talk herself out of it. So instead, with nothing to do now _but_ wait, she focused on Neal and helping him with last minute details for the art show the center was planning. It was the second they had put on since her and Neal's time there and the first where the bulk of putting it together actually fell on him.

She found it endearing, really, how nervous the whole thing made him.

"They wouldn't have asked you if they didn't think you could get it done," Emma would tell him whenever he started to express his concerns, reminding him that this wasn't even the first time that Leo had asked Neal to take on more responsibility.

But it was amazing to her, really, how far they'd come. Not just with the life they had built with friends and family, but they had grown. Like really. And a lot of that came down to the Youth Center, she thought. Especially for Neal. It had helped her find something, yeah, giving her an opportunity and letting her carve something out of it. But Neal? It had taken his strengths (like his people skills and his art thing and all that hopeful optimism) and just let all of them flourish and shine. So he deserved this – the chance to take those skills of his and really show them off. And she hoped, for his sake, he got even more opportunities just like it.

The counseling center, like they always did in the weeks leading up to a big event, saw an increase in traffic well before the art show. Kids worried about things like if their work was good enough and if their parents would like it, while some tearfully admitted that they worried no one would show up to see their display at all.

And while it wasn't the same, Emma always promised, "I'll be there and you can tell me all about your piece." Then later, long after they had left, Emma would find their file and look up their parent or guardian's number and leave a reminder on the machine with a (not so) gentle dig like: "It would really mean a lot to Billy-slash-Susie if you could be there."

Sometimes it worked and sometimes she got an earful about overstepping her bounds or _whatever._ Poor Marge often got stuck with those callers after that.

No one seemed more worried than Neal, however. He sat up late at night, long after he should have fallen asleep (causing Emma herself to worry, despite his reassurances, that his old nightmares definitely hadn't returned full time), but mostly, he would work himself up, fretting over something or other, doing things better left to the day light like going over floor plans and coordinating volunteers and designing (and redesigning) invitations and fliers.

She'd been right, of course, because it had turned out better than expected.

In fact, Emma could barely move.

The crowd shuffled along like a herd of cattle, elbowing her and jostling her about, the stroller containing her son the only thing granting her any sense of personal space. But for once Emma didn't care, pride in Neal's accomplishment outweighing even her trademark annoyance and okay, _maybe_ she still held onto a tiny smidge of paranoia (this place served as a hotbed for germs if she ever saw one). But Neal had done this. He had put this whole thing together. Him and the kids. And it was clearly successful.

Emma squinted through her glasses, searching the crowd for any sign of Neal or Joy and Maya, sparing a friendly smile (genuine and everything) whenever one of the kids called her name, Porter's excited, "Dada" catching her attention, her gaze following his pudgy, outstretched arms, spotting him chatting with Leo just a few feet off to the side, Neal's own grin widening as he caught sight of them, setting down a glass of punch so he could immediately bundle Porter into his embrace, letting out a surprised laugh when Emma followed, throwing her arms around his neck in what was, for her anyway, a rare display of public affection.

She nodded at Leo when she pulled back, hands straightening Neal's rumpled jacket as she said, all pride and giddiness, "Did you see what my guy did?"

Leo smiled and raised a glass in their direction, "Pretty amazing, huh?"

"More than," Emma agreed, her attention back on Neal, staring up at him, pleased at what she saw there. All that joy and pride and nervous anticipation.

With a tinge of pink on his cheeks, Neal threaded his free hand through hers, telling Leo, "I'm gonna give them the grand tour," and then led her and Porter off as if worried she and Leo would start exchanging embarrassing stories.

Porter babbled happily, pointing at every brightly colored painting they meandered past, offering an excited, "Banna," each time they passed a still life of fruit and an even more enthusiastic, "Pup-pup," for anything that remotely resembled an animal. Nearly everyone recognized them as they passed, both she and Neal frequent enough fixtures now. Fellow volunteers thumped Neal on the back, offering him a hearty congratulations, while students offered a cheery hello, some even tugging on their arms, those lucky enough to have present and engaged families, wanting to eagerly introduce them to their parents or guardians.

"It's like I'm with a rock star," said Emma, half-giddy as she took back Port, freeing Neal to shake hands.

"This is all the kids," Neal said modestly, "I just helped organize it."

And of course Emma was happy for the kids too because obviously they had put a lot of effort into both their own works as well as setting everything up and clearly they all had more creative energy than Emma could ever hope to claim as her own (she could barely draw a stick figure). They'd have even more to take pride in when they got to the end of the night and they announced the grand total, seeing how much they had raised for the center. But that was just another part of what Neal had done – helping them, teaching them, _inspiring_ them – and she desperately hoped he saw that too. Saw how far he'd come. Because it was amazing, really, what he had accomplished here.

He leaned over after pointing a parent helpfully in the direction of their kid and whispered, "There is one thing that's all me though."

Her eyes widened with anticipation, Porter letting out a happy squeal and a, "Again, Mama," when her excited energy caused him to bounce on her hip.

" _The_ thing?" she asked, very carefully trying to replicate the motion for Port.

"The thing," he agreed, squeezing her hand, slowly leading them through the crowd, pushing Port's unused stroller along until they reached some dark, hidden corner (and, of course, he had put it there). "Keep in mind I don't usually use water colors so …"

Emma rolled her eyes, playfully swatting at his arm to get him to shut up before she stopped short, her lips parting, allowing an awed gasp to escape.

" _Neal,_ " she breathed, fingers reaching out before she remembered maybe she shouldn't. But he had painted her and Porter, fast asleep in their ridiculous orange recliner and fuck, it had to have been from those first weeks. Port, with his ridiculous hair and his mouth hanging open, nestled against her chest, and she had her cheek pressed against his head. And even if Emma distinctly remembered that time as nothing short of stressful and exhausting, she had the most peaceful look on her face, the picture of perfect contentment.

Neal fidgeted, looking nervous. "What do you think?"

"I love it," Emma murmured. So much so that she couldn't bring herself to tear her eyes away from the painting as she told him so. "I didn't actually do that though? Fall asleep holding him?"

"All the time," said Neal fondly, chuckling as her eyes widened with a certain horror because she couldn't remember that. At all. So much of that time was just a complete blur. "Just like that, too. That protective grip never wavering. It's why we did double duty when you'd feed him."

(She _did_ remember that. Breastfeeding would just knock her out.)

Porter reached out and it must have been a good likeness of her because he kept repeating, "Mama," and when she pointed to the baby, telling him, "That's you, honey. That's _Porter_ ," he scrunched his nose in disbelief ("Well, we know he's your son," Neal would say, teasing her whenever he did this), and bashfully ducked his head, burrowing into the crook of her neck.

"It _is_ beautiful, Neal," she insisted, leaning into his side and potential child endangerment aside, she had already started plotting places she could hang it and then ways she could, maybe, convince Neal to do another of Porter _now._ )

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple, and murmuring, "I had good inspiration."

X-x-x-x-x-X

With her decision about school and aspiring toward Youth Advocate, Neal had noticed the change in Emma almost immediately. Not that it was anything drastic. Not really. She didn't suddenly have a purpose because honestly she'd always had a sense of drive (he saw it every day with Porter). And the weight of unanswered questions hadn't suddenly lifted from her shoulders like it had when she had 'thrown away' her box of childhood mementos (though he knew that she had felt a sense of relief at finding _something_ that she could, maybe, call an interest). But there was a spark. Just the beginnings of something. _Confidence._ And not the show-y, fake her way through life stuff she tried to put on. But the real thing. The kind that could only grow out of a sense of accomplishment, something that would surely blossom as time wore on.

He knew that she still worried, all that practical shit weighing on her because school _would_ cost money and it _would_ take up an awful lot of time, especially because she insisted on sticking with her other job in the meantime. But he'd stand by the fact that they could work all that out. Just like always. Because any added strain would be worth it if continued feeding that spark.

"But what about you?" Emma had asked when he had reassured her of this for nearly the hundredth time and when he furrowed his brow, she added, staring critically at a blank space on their wall, "Your job? You hate it."

Neal scoffed. "I don't _hate_ it."

(He just didn't love it.)

(But the money made up for that, he thought, especially now that they had gotten better at managing it.)

"I don't even know what you do," she insisted, eyes narrowed, tapping a space pointedly, "you never talk about it."

"It's computers and data," said Neal with a shrug, positioning the painting he had done of her and Porter, Emma immediately scrunching her nose in distaste, "boring shit."

And despite the fact that they had already put Porter down for his nap, Emma pointed to the kitchen and, somewhat disgruntedly he shuffled over to the counter, stuffing a dollar into the swear jar, a product of their attempts to break their bad habit now that Port repeated _everything_ he heard, his young mind absorbing things like a sponge.

"We promised we wouldn't settle," she reminded him when he returned, softening slightly as she took over positioning the painting, head cocked in her attempt to assess another spot. "I don't want _you_ to settle."

"I haven't," he said, holding the frame in place, letting her step back to look for whatever she was looking for, "it's not the only thing I do."

And really, even if Emma clearly didn't believe him, Neal thought that coming home to her and the baby, along with the work he did for the center more than made up for his hellishly boring nine to five. Center or not, even, having Port wobble up to him, giant smile on his face as he offered a gurgled, "Dada," would have sustained him.

But he did have his class and the Youth Center and, while staring at a long string of nonsensical numbers, Neal had plans to make and projects to think about that made the time pass by quicker. He had gotten more involved too – they had put on two different arts shows during his time at the center, and this last one, the one he had mostly organized, had been deemed a success, raising a hefty chunk of change that was all going back to the kids. He still played on their somewhat improved baseball team, Leo invited him out for drinks or to a game at least once a week, and he'd gotten talked into helping with the sets for the next play (something called _Into the Woods_ which, unfortunately, reminded him far too much of the Enchanted Forest, but Neal could mostly deal with that).

It was, all of it, enough for him, really.

Something that Emma seemed to accept as the truth after giving him a long, hard look, turning back to the wall, shoulders slumping. "It's too dark in here."

"Put it in the bedroom then," he suggested blandly. He'd prefer it there anyway.

Emma pressed her lips together, "No one will see it."

"Anyone who visits has already seen it," he said practically, leading the way into the other room, "I have the perfect place for it too."

"It better not involve the closet," she said, voice dropping to a whisper as Porter's gentle snores reached their ears (unnecessary considering he slept like the dead).

That _would_ be a good place. It still kinda mortified him that Emma kept making such a fuss about the whole thing. It touched him, of course, that she liked it, but the only reason he had even bothered to display it to begin with was to inspire the shyer kids to do the same. The whole 'everyone is doing it' mentality.

"Here," he said instead, patting the place above their dresser and holding it up as Emma did that thing where she cocked her head and squinted. This time, however, she finished with a bright smile.

"Perfect," she announced, nearly clapping her hands together before a loud snore reminded her that maybe she shouldn't.

They had come a long way, the both of them really. And most of that, he knew, came down to his and Emma's own hard work. But the center, and Leo especially, had provided the means to do it. Leo had placed his faith in them and, in Emma's case, gave a persistent push. It was a debt that Neal wanted to repay, even though he knew that nothing they offered could ever really equate to what he had given him.

He had meant to do it over lunch, just to say thank you, but before he could get to any of that, Leo made an important announcement of his own over his salad.

"I want to thank you actually," said Leo, drizzling a dollop of dressing over his greens, "they're opening a new youth center down in New York and after the success of the art show the other night my application got pushed to the top of the list. They offered me Director."

"Congrats, man," said Neal, thumping the other man on his back. "That's great."

This marked a step up for the other man, Neal knew, as Leo had worked under Director Noble for several years now.

"Well, a part of it is thanks to you, John, really." Neal shook his head, but Leo didn't even let him get a word out, "No, it is. My application wouldn't have stood out nearly as much if the other night hadn't been half as successful as it was. And I was thinking, you know, about who I'd want to have on my team and about everything you've done at the center in the past … What? Year and a half now. You're good with kids, you understand what they're going through, and you've clearly got the management skills. I think you'd be a good fit for my number two."

Neal blinked and, for once, found himself at a loss for words. Then finally, he asked, his voice unusually thick, "you offering me a job?"

Leo nodded. "Just think about it, yeah?"

He thought about it. All the way home and then some.

Did he want the job? Yeah, of course he did. The work appealed to him far more than ordinary office drone. Not to mention it meant something. To him, yeah, but the job would make, hopefully, a difference in the lives of the people he would work with too. But while a part of Neal wanted to move forward with his usual gusto, he just couldn't. He had Emma and Porter to consider. They had built something here. He _had_ a job already, with a certain amount of security. Emma had found something she wanted to do. They had friends.

They had roots.

It had taken him so long to find that again. And he didn't think Emma ever had it at all.

He couldn't stand the thought of risking it, of destroying something that already worked simply by pulling his family to the unknown and unfamiliar just for something he wanted.

Neal thought about this all through dinner, going back and forth, wondering what he should tell Emma, if anything at all. But, in failing to carry the conversation as he usually did, it didn't take Emma all that long to pick up on his distraction.

"Everything alright?" she asked, shooting him a glance between her attempt to entice Porter into eating his vegetables.

"Yeah, just," he decided to broach the subject hesitantly, "Leo's gonna head up a Youth Center in New York. They offered him director."

"Good for him," said Emma, still somewhat distracted as Porter had pressed his lips together, shaking his head stubbornly at the spoon in his mother's hand.

"Yeah," he agreed and he put a bit too much weight to the word because Emma shot him a piercing look that warranted Porter a break, the spoon lowering.

"You'll miss him," she noted, her lips pressed together in a sad smile. "I'm sorry. I know you two are good friends."

Neal shook his head. "No, it's just … he offered me Assistant Director."

"That's great, babe," she said, smiling brilliantly before furrowing her brow. "He can do that?"

"When he's the Director he can."

He watched her carefully. Waiting for it to sink in.

"He offered you Assistant Director," she said slowly. "In New York?"

"Yeah," Neal said.

"Apples, right?"

He had no idea what that had to with anything, other than the fact that Porter detested them.

Still he nodded. "But I'm not –"

But Emma cut him off, moving past the bullshit, and onto what she clearly considered the heart of the matter. "If the job was in Tallahassee would you take it?"

"Well, it would depend," Neal said carefully, "on the pay and if we could afford it."

Emma shook her head. "Never mind that. Would you want to?"

Neal didn't really have to think about it. "Yes."

"Then we're moving to New York," said Emma, surprising Neal because usually Emma worried more about practical matters and deciding to move willy-nilly was as impractical as you could get.

"Yeah, maybe, but I also said that I didn't want us to give up our dreams either," she said when he pointed this out. "This means something to you. It pays." She shrugged and then echoed a familiar phrase. "We'll figure the rest out."

Fuck he loved her.

But he didn't want her to just give up everything.

"Unfortunately bad parenting and child abandonment is a universal thing," she said to this notion. "I'll just find a school in New York instead of Florida." She shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. "What's a few more applications?"

Still, they had a life here, as sparse as it looked sometimes, and given how long they both went without a proper home or any sort of stability he worried about uprooting it.

" _Joy_ _,_ " he said pointedly.

Her response came less quickly this time. "I'll miss her, of course," she agreed, "but we both have phones and this is more important."

"Is it?"

Emma frowned. "Of course." Her lips pressed together and she gave him her patented 'don't be ridiculous' look. "Tallahassee isn't about the place, Neal. So call Leo. Tell him you'll take the job. And we'll build our lives in New York." She scrunched her nose playfully. "Even if it is infested with apples."

"I love you," he said, the words weighted down with warmth and awed gratitude.

She smiled softly, "I love you too." She turned her attention back to Porter as if they had just discussed the weather instead of a life-changing move. "What do ya think, Port? Wanna live in New York?"

Porter clapped excitedly.


	16. Long Distance

**Chapter 16: Long Distance**

Midnight had passed, the cover of darkness blanketing the forest save for the faint twinkle of the stars above and the yellow glow of the lantern clutched tightly in his young, baby smooth hand, the knuckles white and turning whiter with each passing thought of what they planned to do, anticipation and fear at war with each other as he considered the unknown. And yet it paled in comparison to the longing he felt. Longing for the once familiar embrace of his father rather than the death grip of the monster currently hanging off his other hand.

A clearing appeared in the wood and he set the lantern down, ignoring Papa's persistent questions as he reached into his pocket, fumbling nervously until his fingers wrapped around the fairy's generous gift, stepping forward as he pulled out the bean and, eager with the thought that he'd soon have his father back, he threw it to the ground without hesitation, excitedly watching as dirt and leaves twisted. The ground opened, emitting a green glow and an ominous rumble, the howling of the wind whipping through the forest with a strong hand causing them both to stumble, teetering dangerously towards the vortex. He didn't hesitate, however, stepping toward the expanding portal, tugging on his father's hand, who responded by digging his heels into the ground.

"We have to go through it," he shouted, giving Papa's hand another tug.

But Papa resisted, shaking his head, letting out a string of frantic no's, insisting, "It's a trick. It'll tear us apart."

He knew better, however. He had faith. "It's not," he said, struggling to keep his footing, "It'll be okay. I _promise_."

He remembered, before the ogres' numbers tipped the war in their favor, that the villagers would take to the woods, digging holes meant to serve as traps, covering them with sticks and leaves that would collapse under an ogre's weight (or even something light as a rabbit if made incorrectly) if they happened to trod on it, hoping that would keep the giant creatures from reaching the undefended village if they strayed too far.

All sorts of things got stuck in those traps and, before the animals caught on, they proved quite effective in catching game.

And kids playing in the woods.

It happened quickly, the ground giving way with no warning, pulling him down with a lurch, plummeting into the darkness and landing with a hard thud and the crack of a bone. It had taken hours for Papa to find him and even longer to get him out.

This was like that, but this time there was no ground to break his fall, his father's grip stopping him with a uncomfortable jerk, keeping him from disappearing into the storm below. But this was no mistake and still Papa did not move to join him.

"Papa," he said frantically, "we have to go through.

"I can't," said Papa, face twisted pitifully as a flash of green, bright and blinding, lit up the forest and when it faded he had taken Papa's place, calloused hands desperately trying to find something to cling to against the growing storm, repeating, "I can't."

Porter's eyes, wide and scared, stared back at him from below, his tiny hand gripped in what was now his own scale-like monstrosity. "Dada, _please!"_

Green flashed again and he could feel the strong magnetic pull of the portal below him once more. A feminine, work-calloused hand now gripped his. Emma, he realized, and her eyes were wet with tears.

"It's the only way," he told her, accepting the fate that awaited him, not with resignation but with a sort of peace.

"No, Neal," she insisted with her typical fear-laced determination, "I can't."

In the distance Porter cried. "Dada, _please!"_

"I can't," whimpered Emma again.

It broke his heart but he didn't waver, reminding her, "You promised."

Another flash of blinding green and the cold, hard eyes of the demon wearing his father's face stared back at him. He flung accusations at him, betrayal and anger lacing every word. "You coward! You promised! Don't break our deal!"

"I have to," said Papa, voice cold and harsh as he looked down at him with such venom and revulsion that it inspired a palpable fear, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Dada!" Porter cried from his place in the distance. The scale-like hand wrenched out of his desperate grasp, Papa disappearing in a cloud of smoke as he fell and fell and fell into nothingness.

X-x-x-x-X

Neal woke with a mangled gasp and clothes soaked through with sweat clung to his body, his chest heaving as his heart galloped toward an unknown finish line at a dangerous pace, the race intensifying as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and found nothing familiar about his current surroundings. Everything from the bed to the view out the window was foreign.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him and it took him a moment to remember ... but he was here ... in a New York City hotel room ... on business, of sorts. All that he loved had not suddenly vanished beneath him. _No_. It was just a dream. He would find Emma and Porter right where he had left them, back in Tallahassee, on Sunday when he returned home.

That thought alone allowed his breathing to even out, his frantic heart rate at least slowing down to a somewhat more bearable hard trot.

No longer particularly eager to go back to sleep, not even when faced with the prospect of a long day ahead of him, he reached for the remote. But before he could event turn on the tv and settle on some mundane infomercial to watch, the lyrics to _Only You_ blasted through the room, his cell phone lighting up, Emma's name flashing on the screen.

He pressed the phone to his ear, voice hoarse when he spoke. "Hey."

"Hey." He could hear the smile in Emma's voice before she switched to concern. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No," he assured her, grinning because only Emma would remember to worry about that _after_ she called. "Not you."

Emma picked up on his meaning immediately and with a sharp tone, asked, "What's wrong?"

"The usual," he murmured, trading his sweat-soaked pillow for the drier one, settling back against it.

"You said they stopped," she said, half-accusingly.

"They did," he assured her before asking, "Everything work out with Port?"

He had called earlier to say goodnight and to let Emma know he had arrived safely and had gotten all settled into the hotel only to be met by Emma's frazzled voice and the sounds of Porter's unhappy wails. Neal had wound up reciting _Go Dog Go_ right there over the phone (he had mostly memorized it by now - Porter requesting it the most) and then sung the usual songs as Porter calmed, his anxious hiccups fading away.

She heaved a sigh. "Well, he stopped crying so talking to you helped with that, at least. He got all worked up though. Hyper. Wanted to play instead of sleep and when he finally started to get drowsy he wouldn't let me put him down in the crib."

He frowned, an image of Emma and Porter curled up at an odd angle in the orange recliner popping into his head. "But he's asleep now, at least?"

"He is," said Emma fondly, "I laid down with him on the bed. I meant to just go to sleep then but, well ... You _know."_

He did know. Where Neal had always found himself plagued by nightmares, Emma found it near impossible to settle her thoughts down enough _to_ dream, let along sleep peacefully. That had never gone away, not even as she grew more confident as a mother.

"Quite the pair we make," he murmured and Emma snorted. "Is he still in the bed?"

"No, I moved him back soon as he started snoring." She sighed. "I didn't want to wake him and I was worried he might try to jump down if he woke up before I did."

Their bed wasn't that high off the ground, Neal didn't think, but it seemed like a good precaution to take anyway.

"I'm sorry," he said significantly because it was his fault, really, that she had to endure Port's fussiness.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Emma and he could practically hear her patented eye roll. "He's just used to you tucking him in every night. We'll adjust eventually."

"He shouldn't have to," he insisted darkly.

" _Neal,"_ she stressed, "we've talked about this."

They had. Once the jubilation that followed his decision to take the job had passed, they had remembered to consider the specifics. Leo had moved almost immediately and while Neal didn't want to leave the brunt of the pre-work to him, they couldn't exactly afford for him to quit his job just yet when he wouldn't exactly be on the payroll until it officially opened next summer. Nor could they afford Emma giving up the extra hours she got on the weekends. So they reluctantly settled on Neal traipsing back and forth.

He didn't mind the travel or the extra work and he hadn't lost his excitement for his new job. He did, however, absolutely hate leaving his family and he'd been sick with guilt since hearing his son's unhappy cries earlier that evening. Because how could Porter possibly understand that Daddy was only away for the weekend.

When he didn't say anything, Emma added, "It's only temporary."

"Yeah," he agreed. _Reluctantly._

"We miss you though," she said teasingly and a smile tugged at his lips.

"I miss you too. The both of you."

"We love you."

"I love you both," Neal said, his smile widening. "So much."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Emma asked, sobering.

His brow furrowed in confused amusement. "How much I love you?"

She snorted, but her voice still carried a serious note as she spoke. "No, your nightmare?

"Just the usual crap," he offered with a shrug. And that was ... _half_ true. Emma usually appeared in far more pleasant dreams and the nightmares involving Porter had pretty much stopped after he and Emma had made their new Rule Number One.

"Not so usual anymore though," Emma pointed out softly, tone worried.

"It's probably just the hotel," he said, waving it off, "being in a new place threw me off, is all. I'll be fine."

"Yeah," she agreed sounding reluctant. "I suppose it has been awhile since we've done the musical beds thing."

And far longer than that since Emma had been any farther than the reach of his arm.

"Besides, it's only temporary," he said, offering Emma's words back to her.

"Sure," she said dryly, "throw that back in my face."

He chuckled fondly and asked, "Sleepy yet?"

"No," she murmured and he knew she must be lying. "You?"

"No," he lied. It had been a long, draining day of travel but it occurred to him that this was the first night he and Emma had spent apart since meeting.

They kept talking, even with the knowledge that they'd wind up regretting it in the morning, Emma only saying her goodbyes after Porter demanded her attention, awake at his usual early hour.

The center, at least, was coming along nicely. That first weekend they had taken a look at the lot (which was fairly large given that it was smack dab in the middle of the city) and then met with some of the committee members that had chosen Leo for the project. The whole thing was part of a youth outreach program - something to help cut back on crime in the city and, maybe, help with awareness and education. It was a tall order and they were pouring a significant amount of money into the center to help get it started.

(Though they'd still need to gather support from the community for private donations to keep the momentum going.)

They talked design, Leo relying on Neal to put together the initial sketches.

"We'll still need to take it to an architect," Leo had said, "but it'd be nice to have a clear-cut idea of what we wanted going in."

Something bright and fun. _Warm._

They took a lot of inspiration from the center back in Tallahassee, getting creative with the space, and adding some new touches, Leo coming in with plenty of his own ideas that he had built up over the years but never got a chance to implement.

Designs eventually turned to bids for contractors and thankfully lessening the need for Neal's presence in New York _every_ weekend. Instead, he'd and Leo would talk on the phone and over the computer about programs they wanted to implement and how. They'd trade thoughts on applications for employees, and ways they could raise money and get the community involved.

And he didn't tell Emma, refusing to make her worry over what he knew would (probably) be nothing, but they (the city or whoever) did have to run a background check. A standard when it came to working with children. And he - well, John Neilson - passed. So nothing at all.

Eventually, about a month or so after Porter turned two they took advantage of the holiday season, Emma and Neal both finally getting a few weeks off that they used for an extended road trip, the three of them finally taking New York in as a family while they started the search for a much needed apartment. They took the car, Porter eagerly pointing out the window, proclaiming, "Cow!" or "Horsie!" or "Truck!" and then asking, "What's that?" whenever they passed something he didn't recognize. Emma or Neal would dutifully respond with things like, "That's a windmill, honey," _or_ "That, Port, is the world's biggest ball of yarn."

Porter always oohed and awed appropriately, but as exciting as he seemed to find his first road trip ("He's got that adventurous spirit," Neal proclaimed proudly), he would get antsy from sitting, stuck in his car seat too long, Emma only able to listen to his frustrated cries for so long before she followed suit, insisting that they pull over because she needed air (they still hadn't gotten the air conditioner fixed), food, or a bathroom break.

"Stop the car," Emma shouted suddenly. She had an excited glint in her eyes as she turned in her seat. "Port, honey, look. It's snow."

Porter looked on with wide eyes full of amazed curiosity as they helped him out of the car before he began to kick and flail with a certain enthusiasm, stretching and straining in his eager attempt to reach the foreign substance.

"You didn't tell me about the snow," accused Emma, mock disappointment lacing her tone as she tried forcing Porter into his hat and gloves, an especially difficult task when he did nothing but try to wrestle his way out of her arms, ready to stretch his legs and explore the abandoned field they had pulled up next to.

"It's the Northeast." A smile pulled on his lips as Porter ran off, quickly abandoning the gloves that Emma had tugged him into. "Of course there's snow."

Emma gave chase, Porter shivering comically as he snatched his hand back from the cold substance, but this didn't seem to entice him to cover his skin, running out of his mother's gasp, giggling playfully until he tripped, falling into the snow, stunning him silent, a confused look on his face as he tried to decide whether he should cry or not.

Neal expected Emma to immediately carry him back to the car, tugging a dry set of clothes out of the backseat, but instead she fell to the ground with him, laying flat on her back.

"Look, Port, honey," she said enthusiastically as he peered suspiciously at her, "we can make _angels_."

Port's suspicion turned to awe as he watched his mother move her arms and legs back and forth, and immediately started to imitate her movements, somewhat ruining the effect when he started to roll his entire body back and forth. But cold and wet as it was, Neal couldn't _not_ join them after that, falling to the ground on Port's other side and imitating his odd sort of wriggle.

Emma got nearly as much enjoyment out of introducing Porter to snow as he enjoyed playing in it; so much so that she insisted they show him how to make a snowman, even if the feeble supply of the white stuff they had meant they barely compiled enough to match Porter's height. Emma stole his hat, handing it to Porter who placed it on the snowman's head, squealing happily when it seemed to fit.

(He stole it back by the time they left with cold fingers and happy smiles.)

X-x-x-X

Their first day Neal took them to the construction site, checking in with Leo and their progress and pointing out their plans to Emma as she kept a tight hold on an unhappy Porter who she refused to let roam free among lost nails and excess wood shavings.

Emma took a special interest in the large, snow-covered yard in the back, something she didn't expect to find in New York City. And honestly? The whole size of the structure surprised her.

"We got good funding to start," explained Neal, "the new Mayor is making children a priority and has been selling the project as a way to clean up the streets."

"It'll get chopped in half after the first year," Leo added, "so we'll be back to depending on private benefactors."

"We're mulling over ideas for that though," Neal promised, tugging on Emma's hand excitedly, "and look!"

He pointed out a bench holding a sign too big to lift, all smooth wood with letters carved into it, spelling out: "Tallahassee."

"Underneath it he had written out _'Youth Center'_ in pencil, the words still waiting to be carved out.

"Best name I could think of," he said proudly.

She understood his attachment to the name, of course, but she pointed out that anyone else would find it odd for something in the heart of New York City.

"It's also bright and sunny and fun to say," said Neal.

"Impossible to spell," Emma pointed out, Leo smirking beside her in amusement, but Neal seemed undeterred.

"It'll catch on," he insisted, "You'll see."

They treated Leo to lunch before parting ways, the pair rushing off so that they could make their appointment at their first potential apartment.

They, at least, had an idea of what they wanted because they absolutely _needed_ something with two bedrooms. Porter had reached an age where he should have his own room and Emma and Neal needed, well, _privacy_ instead of just the few stolen moments they had managed in the past few years.

When they had first gotten to Tallahassee they had taken the first apartment with a landlord that said yes to them, knowing that their lack of jobs and references meant that few would. Now though, they both had employment and friends and an overall better handle at managing their money, allowing them some wiggle room to be a bit pickier as they looked carefully at their options.

A good thing, really, as Neal's old-fashioned tastes had, at some point in their time together, seemingly rubbed off on Emma, who would scrunch her nose distastefully at anything too _bright_ or _new._

"Well, it should match all those antiques you're going to stuff into it, now shouldn't it," she said cheekily, running a light finger over fancy marble, noting quickly that she didn't want any of _that_ either.

They devoted early afternoons to the hunt - looking at large apartments and cramped lofts, spaces in worn-down buildings and modern high rises. Nothing seemed to fit and when it did, they found their hopes squashed when the landlord revealed the price. They ignored their disappointment, easing it with the touristy thing, taking Porter ice skating in Rockefeller Center and to a kid's friendly show off Broadway. They walked in Central Park and took a ride in one of those horse carriages, Porter giggling excitedly whenever the horse so much as twitched his tail, squirming delightfully in a nervous Emma's lap. They rode to the top of the Empire State Building, Neal looking a bit green as they looked out over the city, and then, stupidly forgetting that it was winter, took a boat ride out to Ellis Island, Emma adding layers to Porter's already bundled form as the chill came at them with a sudden ferocity.

But as their two weeks drew to a close they inevitably gave up on actually finding anything this trip, allowing their full attention to divert to Porter, Neal chomping at the bit to get him out of the city and to an actual farm where Port could, maybe, touch actual horse and, maybe, even take an actual pony ride. Emma took less of an interest in this side trip considering her general dislike of anything remotely nature-like, but went along anyway, walking gingerly, scowl on her face as they meandered up a muddy driveway between a beaten-up old farm house and equally worn fence somewhere in Westchester. No sign of the owner or any indication that they actually let people view the horses met their eyes.

"We're just looking," said Neal, clearly unconcerned but that didn't stop Emma from looking over her shoulder every few moments, as if expecting a mad man with a shot gun to suddenly appear.

"Horsie," Porter shouted, finger pointing at the sight of a brown mare exiting the barn. Neal's face lit up with his son's, and he picked up the pace, carrying Port to the fence, handing him a carrot from the bag he brought and encouraging Port to try a go at feeding him.

This did not warm Emma up to this venture.

"It'll bite his hand off," she hissed nervously, prying the carrot from her son's fingers, causing Porter to cry pitifully as the horse approached and he no longer had anything to offer him.

"He's friendly," Neal insisted, reaching out to pat the brown mane. "Go ahead, Port. See, it's okay, Em."

This hardly convinced Emma but she at least didn't protest again when Neal handed Porter another carrot (only after feeding the horse himself as a sign of good faith). The horse bent down to take it and, quite naturally, Porter dropped it, flinching away, watching as the horse merely bent down further to retrieve the fallen goods. Immediately, Porter reached out eagerly for another, repeating the process with much enthusiasm until finally Neal took pity on the old horse and encouraged Porter to say his goodbyes. He did so with a great big hug-kiss combo that caused Emma to both flinch with nerves (because germs and things) and smile at her son's obvious love for the animal.

Unfortunately for Emma this did not mark their departure because Neal wanted to explore, riling up Porter to do the same and ultimately outnumbering Emma two-to-one (something, she imagined, she would have to get used to as the years wore on). As they walked, Porter alternated between riding on top of his father's shoulders and running along the muddy path, stomping in icy puddles.

(Emma, at least, had the foresight to put him in snow pants before they left.)

"You looking for sheep?" Emma asked wryly, deciding that he must feel nostalgic. Metropolitan as they both were, Tallahassee and New York City still had very different feels, New York much more bustling than Neal typically preferred.

Neal laughed, but shook his head.

"It's just nice, isn't it?" He prompted. "Peaceful."

"Quiet," said Emma, scrunching her nose in a way that said she didn't exactly mean it as a compliment. She nodded at Porter, who had started to dose off by then, head resting on his father's shoulder, eyes blinking sleepily. "We should start heading back."

"In a bit, yeah," Neal agreed. He looked relaxed and Emma didn't bother arguing. The sun still sat high enough in the sky that they wouldn't have to worry about losing light and hey, at least she didn't have to carry the wet, muddy child.

They walked long enough to eventually stumble upon a beat-up old barn sitting in front of a line of trees at the end of a long-since abandoned section of the property, Neal letting out a low whistle as they took in the charred wood and gaping hole in the roof - the product of what looked like a nasty fire. Emma peered inside, noting the old remnants of stairs and a rusty sink.

"Looks like they were converting it," said Neal, running a hand along an oak beam.

"People actually do that?" Emma asked skeptically. "Live in remolded barns."

Neal shrugged. "We lived in a car."

Fair point.

Neal seemed fascinated by the structure and Emma liberated Porter before he could whisk him inside, the way the wood and leaves creaked dangerously beneath his feet making her nervous.

"Be careful," she warned before her attention turned to Porter as he stirred, blinking wearily. She settled on a large stump, wincing at that cold, damp feeling on her ass and worked on straightening Porter's scarf and hat.

"Hungry, Mama," he told her and she at least had a few carrots to offer him before he followed this with one of his dramatic, full-body shivers.

"Cold, honey?" Porter nodded, snuggling against her and Emma called out to Neal, bouncing her knee and Porter up and down in that way she knew he loved. It distracted him, at least, before his father emerged, one of his mad grins on his face and a sign in his hand.

For Sale, it read.

Emma's eyes widened and she immediately shook her head, climbing to her feet with Porter.

"Port's ready to go," she said pointedly, a warning, as if she had picked up on exactly what he was thinking.

"Baby, I can fix this place up," he announced earnestly.

Emma scoffed, silently giving him a look that said 'don't be ridiculous.'

"I can," he insisted.

"You can't."

Neal gave a single shrug of the shoulder as if to say 'easy as pie,' before repeating himself. "I can."

"Not by the time we move."

"We could figure something else out in the meantime, but baby, this could be it."

" _It_?"

"It," he said firmly, stepping towards her, hands finding her waist, Porter looking between them with wide eyes, thoughts of hunger and cold fading away as if he realized that he was suddenly in the middle of something very important. "Our home."

Emma cocked her head, giving him a dry look. "You want to raise our baby in a barn. _Neal_ it wouldn't even be _ours_. It's an extension of some guy's property." She leaned in closer, whispering dramatically. "We don't know who lives here. It could be a murderer."

"Emma, he's selling it," he said, shaking the sign, "And anyone could be a murderer. Difference is he'd be farther away than most of our other neighbors."

But that wasn't Emma's only point. They needed to consider things. Things like: "We have one car, Neal. That's not gonna do us any good out here in the middle of nowhere. Especially once I start work and school."

"You wanted something with easier access to the back anyway," Neal pointed out practically.

(It was true. Emma loved the bug. She would never sell it. But she also really hated using it when she had Porter to contend with.)

"So you want to buy a new car, fix this place up, and start your new job," she looked at him incredulously, "seriously, Neal, do you remember the last time you used a hammer."

Neal sputtered. "I've -" He drew in sharp breath of air and then grabbed Emma by the shoulders, turning her and Porter around. "Look."

"Babe," she said, her features forming unimpressed lines. "That's part of the problem."

But Neal shook his head. "No, baby, _look,_ " he insisted, his chin landing on her shoulder, his words a seductive whisper in her ear. "Look at the space. How big it is. In here and outside, where Porter could run around. Look at how _real_ everything is. Look at the potential. Maybe we don't move in right away, maybe we work out a deal with the owner so we can come down on the weekends and fix it up, bit by bit. But it'd be something we did. It'd be a place we could raise our kids."

" _Kids?"_

No, they hadn't discussed the idea of more children. In fact, they rarely discussed the future at all in any sort of definitive terms, other than maybe a few dreams pinned to _Operation Hope._ Her education and the move to New York was the longest they had ever looked ahead without a forced hand. Not out of any idea that they didn't see a future together, but more the struggle to stay afloat left them fighting the rocky current of the short term rather than making their way to the peaceful waters of the future. Even Emma's attempts to transition to school and a new career came second to Porter and her job at the restaurant, something she left to when she had the time, refusing to let Porter and his needs shift from her number one priority.

(Neal could practically taste the future though. "We're so close, baby," he would say, "it's ours for the taking.")

"Yeah, someday, I think more kids might be nice," Neal whispered, "you know, when we both have jobs we love, a house, and after we talked about it and decided we couldn't live without them."

She had given him those words first and the fact that he had remembered them maybe took her breath away. " _Neal._ "

"I know you can't see that far ahead right now, baby, but I'm telling you that everything is right at our fingertips. We just have to take a leap."

"You mean a risk," said Emma pointedly, but she had started to soften.

He shrugged, grinning playfully. "Yeah, well, leap sounds less scary." He sobered quickly enough though, moving to stand in front of her, clearly wanting her to see how seriously he felt about this. "We take risks, Emma. It's how we met. It's how we got to Tallahassee." He grinned at Porter, poking his stomach and causing him to squeal and squirm with delight. "It's how we got this little guy. It's what you're going to be doing when you start school. And it's what we're doing with his move. Why not try one more. It's like what you asked, when we first decided I should take the job and move here. Do you want it? Could you see yourself living here?" He offered a sheepish look. "Y'know, when it's all done up and pretty."

"It would be very us," she admitted reluctantly, after giving it a long, once over (though she still couldn't quite see what Neal apparently did). "Living out of a barn."

Neal chuckled deeply.

"I guess we could see what he's asking for," said Emma slowly and Neal grinned. "But I expect to see your garage-sale haggling skills in full swing. This place is a dump."

Neal saluted her playfully. "Yes, ma'am."

The owner, a frail looking old man named Mr. Portobello, looked at them as if they had lost their minds when they knocked on the door, the for-sale sign in hand and an offer ready on their lips. He invited them in for coffee, Porter happily chomping on cookies as they debated the asking price and actual terms (he was mostly selling the land the barn happened to be attached to, Mr. Portobello too old to manage it himself these days), both meeting somewhere in between the two offered prices by the time their cups had all emptied.

(He had to consider the loss he would take if he fixed the place up himself or just left it to rot. And Neal, the ultimate nice guy, later told her he didn't want to drive the price too low. "He's old and could obviously use the money. Still a fair deal.)

Porter cried pitifully as they bundled him into his car seat, unhappy that he had to say goodbye to the horses. "Someday, Port, we'll be living right next door and you'll get to see them everyday."

This dried up his sniffles momentarily, Porter clapping with his trademark delight until he realized with great disappointment that someday wasn't _right now._

She could learn to live with nature, Emma decided, if it made her son smile like that.


	17. The First Farewell

**Chapter 17: The First Farewell**

She had planned to wait out the month, bringing her just past the arrival of her sixteenth birthday, now less than a week away. But staring at the angry red mark above her knee, the burn still stinging like the fury that had prompted it, Emma knew that she couldn't. Not even if it had, mostly, been an accident - a drunken hand flying out, misjudging the distance between air and skin. But accident tended to straddle a line, skirting close to a mindset that allowed _oops_ to turn into something far more sinister. Something she had promised herself she would never, ever put up with.

And, honestly, she had grown sick of it all, tired of tying herself to a system that didn't really give a damn about her anyway. She could take care of herself. And do a better job of it too.

He caught up to her, bag still in hand, Emma already halfway out the door when she found herself blocked by the intimidating figure of her latest so-called foster parent.

"What are we supposed to tell Social Services when they come knocking?" he demanded because of course that mattered more than a teenager roaming the streets alone.

"That's your problem, not mine." They could stand to lose one or two of their supposed charges. Maybe then someone might actually pay attention, save the next kid the hassle.

She pushed past him then and that hand shot out, deliberately this time, grabbing her arm and yanking her to a stop.

An anger she hadn't felt before bubbled up and over a pot that had been simmering for quite some time now and through clenched teeth, Emma hissed, "Don't. Touch. Me."

And Emma must have been more intimidating that she thought because he let her go immediately, snatching his hand away, cradling it to his chest, almost as if her very skin had burned him. She took the opportunity, walking away into the dark night. Alone. Just like always.

X-x-x-x-X

The Youth Center, Emma found out, was throwing them a party. To say goodbye.

"For Leo, you mean." It wasn't a question, but Neal still shook his head.

"No. All of us," he insisted, handing Emma her box-labeling sharpie. "We volunteered there too, y'know? It's been like two years."

Emma rolled her eyes, scribbling out _bedroom_ on an overstuffed box. "I know." And she said it as if she really had. "The things is, Neal, we don't have time for parties."

He waved this off. "It's not till Friday."

"Yeah, and we move on Saturday, and I haven't even put a dent in my check -" She trailed off, just catching Porter out of the corner of her eye where he was tugging on one of Neal's antique clocks, trying to sneakily pull it out of a box so he could play with it. The box. Not the clock. And there went reason number one she had barely started packing.

She rushed to scoop him up. "Port, honey, you have a box." Several, actually, and she was officially at the end of her rope. " _Neal-"_

"I'll take him to the park," he said quickly, obviously sensing her frustration as he pulled Porter, who was still desperately reaching for the box, into his arms. "It'll let him get the excess energy out. Enough, maybe, to go down for a N-A-P."

(Nap had become a forbidden word in their household. Just like peas. And all swears.)

Emma let them go with a sigh of relief, wishing she could blame her lack of progress on _just_ Porter, but it was Neal too. As much as he _tried_ to help, he also had, like, zero organizational skills. So, of course, he thought they'd be done by Friday - his idea of packing involved throwing things into boxes until they wouldn't close, forcing Emma to sort and separate whenever she found silverware and towels stuffed in with his records and dusty old antiques.

That was reason number two, by the way. The actual having of belongings they wanted to take.

She had never had that before, not in excess, and it had surprised Emma how much they had actually managed to accumulate. Mind you, most of it belonged to Porter - toys and clothes and what-have-you's - but Emma had found herself quite pleased to see that she and Neal actually had shit too. Crap that went beyond _just_ the essentials. Because they had Neal's guitar and their dreamcatcher and a collection of old nick-knacks that Neal had picked up at various garage sales over the years. All of which, without Emma even really processing it, had given the apartment that lived in feel that their ratty furniture never would have.

Thankfully, they weren't taking it, the furniture, instead deciding that they would return the beat-up patio set and the itchy orange recliner back to the curb where they had found it so that, maybe, some other couple down on their luck could pick it up and make use of it as they started their life together.

They would, however, take the mahogany baby furniture. Mostly because it had been a gift and Emma hated the idea of strangers using it. Neal, meanwhile, insisted that they might need it again someday

"Just in case," he would say and he most certainly did not mean Porter who had started to, quite rapidly, outgrow his crib, nearly on the verge of making a successful escape with his ridiculous climbing skills.

That decision, however, meant new furniture, along with apartment hunting, was reason number three she had fallen so far behind. Though finding a new place to live had become a much easier endeavor once they had made the decision to buy the barn. Because that would make that next place - a two bedroom just three blocks from the new youth center and one and a half from the subway that would take her to campus - just a temporary ordeal.

"How temporary?" Emma would often ask Neal because it worried her. Both potential scenarios. Not that the idea of a house with an actual yard that Porter could run in didn't excite her, but she didn't want her son to ever know the awful feeling of uncertainty and confusion that came with being constantly uprooted without any time to settle. But on the other hand, if progress was slow, forcing them to wait and wait and wait, he would have time to make friends only to have them ripped away.

"I think it's a bit different, baby, when your family is going with you." He still couldn't give her an exact timeline, however. He just promised, "I have plans. And ideas. Lots and lots of ideas."

(And he wouldn't tell her about any of them.)

Emma managed to get the kitchen packed away, just wrapping the last of the mismatched plates they had bought back in Georgia, when her boys returned, Neal the only one showing any signs of the promised exhaustion. Porter merely looked alert and a bit red-eyed as he ran straight to her, sniffing dramatically.

"Mama!" His lower lip wobbled as he stuck out a leg, the pants now torn at the knee, a brightly colored band-aid just visible beneath the rip. "Boo-boo."

"Uh-oh. Now how did that happen?" She had mostly learned not to fret too much when he got cuts and scrapes (a common enough occurrence considering how active he was), and so she kept her voice carefully neutral as she helped Porter out of his coat. And, usually, it _wasn't_ a big deal. He healed quickly enough, always bouncing back with his usual gusto, tears dying when the cut disappeared from view with the aid of cartoon covered bandages.

"There was an incident with a slide," Neal explained from where he had flopped into the recliner. "Nothing more than a scrape. I made sure to clean it out. But -"

"It hurts, Mama," Porter tugged on her arm, refusing to let his father finish as he demanded her attention, "Fix."

"Daddy already fixed it up for you, honey," she pointed to the Elmo covered knee, "See? All better."

Porter shook his head, tears starting to pool in his eyes as he said, oddly sage-like, "You have to do it."

"He insisted," Neal told her, fingers absently playing with unused bubble wrap, and Emma gave him a sympathetic smile.

They were used to this, mostly, the fact that Porter tended to prefer her over Neal when he got sick or injured. And it wasn't like he didn't want Neal for anything. He got called upon for story-time ("Daddy does the best voices, Mama.") and almost always for playtime and really, any of the fun stuff. But Emma knew it still bothered him. That he couldn't seem to comfort his son when he got hurt (which was absurd to her because Neal was far more nurturing than Emma could ever hope to be), but, well, it was just a kid thing, right? Kids just always seemed to prefer their mothers when they weren't feeling exactly tip-top.

"Alright." She gathered Porter into her arms, dumping the masking tape into Neal's lap as they passed, reminding him firmly, "utensils and clocks are separate boxes."

The distinct pop of bubble wrap followed her out of the room.

The very room that, just two days later, they were stuffing themselves into, camping out next to Porter's beloved boxes so that Neal could paint the bedroom, the landlord having pointed out Port's mural on his first run-through, claiming they would lose their deposit if the walls didn't return to the typical bland white by the time they left. Emma took copious pictures of the thing - Neal had done such a great job - along with a smattering of others before everything got packed up so that she would have something to actually remember the place by.

Because it hadn't been just a roof.

It was home.

And yeah, okay, maybe it had that small cramped feel with furniture that could hurt your eyes just looking at it, rusty pipes that sometimes shot out discolored water, and neighbors that were loud and mean and so obviously shifty. _Seriously_. Emma looked forward to actually have the freedom to take Porter out of the apartment without having to check the stairwell for signs of people.

(Emma could handle herself, but it got harder with a baby in her arms.)

All of those things should have made it this horrible place to live, but both she and Neal had stayed in far worse. Smaller spaces in worse neighborhoods. Neal had told her tales of sneaking into public gyms just to take a shower and she remembered foster homes where she couldn't even go to school without someone trying to steal her shit.

But this apartment? It was theirs. Or had been. It had character and they had earned everything in it, working their asses off in the effort to make something of themselves.

Which they actually kinda wound up doing.

Well enough, even, that they had pulled themselves up and out.

She never would have believed it three years ago, the things they would do, but Emma looked forward to the next part. Moving on and seeing what came next and actually giving her son something _better._ Still. She would miss this place too, a part of her even kinda sad to leave it behind.

Mostly, though, she would miss the people.

After handing in her official notice at the restaurant, she had taken Gretchen out to lunch at one of those higher-end chains that adorned the mall and, after their hamburgers arrived, Emma had wasted no time getting straight to the point.

"Tell him." Ridiculous as she found feelings and all that gushy shit, even she could recognize that Gretchen liked Mark. And while Emma would have never considered handing out this sort of advice a year or two ago, her co-workers had actually turned into good friends. They had helped her out. On the advice front and then covering her shifts when things like Porter getting sick took priority. This push seemed like the best shot Emma had at, maybe, returning the favor.

Gretchen, as expected, had sputtered, "What?"

"Just tell Mark. And don't be surprised if it doesn't take at first. I had to kiss John three times before he got the message."

"I don't ... he doesn't ... Three times? _Seriously?_ "

"You do. He does. And it's a long story." She had taken a bite and then refocused. "But even if he doesn't feel the same way then you should still say something. Because then, at least, you'll know for sure. And you can move on. Whether you're moving on with or without him."

Gretchen had taken a moment and then nodded, seemingly accepting that Emma had a point. "But if I do that then you have to promise to stay in touch. I want e-mails. With pictures."

Emma had grinned, "Yes, ma'am."

(Maybe she and Gretchen had grown closer than she'd originally assumed.)

And then, as exhausting as it sounded considering the drive facing them the next day, Emma let Neal drag her to the Youth Center. Something that had turned into this ridiculous thing that she had expected to hate, surrounded by strangers as she would inevitably be. Until she realized that she actually knew most of the people, both kids and adults, in attendance. And the ones that she didn't seemed to still know Neal.

(Leo, who had returned to Florida for the last of his belongings, knew everyone. And everyone obviously loved Porter.)

They had cake and were presented with a card that everyone had signed along with matching Director and Assistant Director name plaques for both Leo and Neal that had the latter all teary-eyed. But before Emma could poke fun they were handing her one too, one side labeled Youth Counselor and the other Youth Advocate.

"For now and the future," they said, "because you're gonna rock it. " And suddenly Emma needed to duck her head so that, obviously, she could remove a piece of debris that had gotten lodged in her eye.

She wound up handing out a ridiculous number of hugs after that and when kids and volunteers asked for her new contact information, she barely hesitated to hand it over.

It was hard, but not nearly as hard as the inevitable goodbye they would have to say to Joy and Maya, who they had left to the very last moment, the girls coming over to help them load the last of everything into the rental truck.

"But why can't we move to New York too?" asked Maya, who had taken to expressing her disappointment both loudly and petulantly ever since they had announced their plans.

"You can come visit." Neal then listed off at least a dozen different things they could all do together. Most of them winter-related activities. A would-be treat for both Joy and Maya considering they had never seen snow before.

But the sentiment was clear: This was goodbye, but not forever.

Head ducked and the color red staining her cheeks, Maya handed Porter a worn-looking teddy bear, something that rivaled _Puppy_ on his list of favorite toys and one that had gotten used a number of times in the effort to calm an unhappy baby when Maya and Joy took on babysitting duty. Maya had complained numerous times about this, hating the idea of sharing with a baby of all things. But that just made the gift that much sweeter and Emma smiled softly, crouching down to her level and, after tucking raven hair behind Maya's ear, she produced a carefully stored mobile.

"Your mom was kind enough to let us borrow this for a little while," said Emma, "but I think it's about time you got it back."

Maya took it gingerly, examining it with great care before whispering, "Thank you."

"No thank _you."_ Emma straightened, facing Joy with a sad smile, "And you, for -" She gestured toward Maya and the mobile and then a made a wider, vaguer gesture to represent, well, everything else.

"It couldn't have gone to a better family." Joy opened her arms widely, "Come here then. No need to draw this out. New York's just a couple of states away and we'll talk often enough." Emma let out a watery laugh, embracing her friend, giving Joy the opportunity to whisper in her ear. "I'd wish you luck, but I think you and that guy of yours are gonna do just fine. Still. Be sure to call when you get there. Let us know you're safe."

Emma nodded and tried her best to (once more) discreetly wipe at her tears before pulling back, climbing into the the truck (they had rigged up the bug to be towed behind them) with Porter and Neal. As they drove off, they all waved enthusiastically, Emma looking back at Joy and Maya and that run-down apartment building, drinking it all in for the last time until, inevitably, they all disappeared from view.

Neal reached over and squeezed her hand, sending her a quick, worried glance. "You alright?"

"Yeah." She offered a tight smile, threading her fingers through his. "Just ... It's harder than I thought it would be. Leaving."

"It's not too late to change our minds."

He was joking. Mostly. Still, Emma rolled her eyes because _don't be ridiculous._ "Yes, it is. I just ... I think I might actually miss it here, y'know, and that's strange, in a way." She paused and softened, bringing their clasped hands up to her lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. "It's exciting though. Moving forward."

And the way Neal smiled told Emma that he felt exactly the same. "To moving forward then. _Together."_

"Together."

* * *

I'm so, so sorry this took so long everyone. Hopefully the extra chapters make up for it though.

If you're wondering ... Other than the usual life stuff, the reason this is so late is because there's a certain overlap in chapters 12 and 13 that kept throwing me off. It's a long process of me basically over-thinking things like ... they should be closer together and one scene should go before the other because of silly literary reasons like escalation but that doesn't work because this needs to go after that AND theme. So there was a lot of me trying to switch things around and then hating it and going back to the original and still not liking it. I still go back and forth on whether it works or not, but sometimes you've got to let things go, right?

Anyway, another thing you might have noticed is that this chapter reached a sort of natural conclusion. Something I realized as I was writing around chapters 12 and 13. So I'm going with it. The story tends to be very episodic, I think, which lets it break up nicely into parts. I worried a lot over whether this would mean losing some of the more foreshadowy stuff, but honestly once I made the decision to do it in parts, I got more done in the past two months than I had in a while so I'm gonna go with it.

What I'll do is post the parts/ficlets as they're finished - so sometimes they will be longer and sometimes they'll be one-offs. Which may be annoying, I know, but if I don't do it that way I'll get stuck in editing hell like I did with chapters 12 and 13 and when that happens I don't move forward with the writing part. Or I do, but I'm changing and adding things and that's not always good either. I promise that I definitely plan to continue, I just realized that I'm not exactly cut out for the week by week updates. Sorry!

So this part is done! Without ever actually reaching the chapter that has the quote from the summary (I may have to change that, I dunno). And for those of you who have read to the very end I just want to say thank you so very much. I really hope you enjoyed the ride so far. Also, a big thanks as well to **steelneena** and **riml** for the kind reviews.

To answer the question - No, Emma definitely won't be doing the bailbonds thing. I think I read that they changed it in canon, but I'd always assumed that Emma went down that route as a response to how things ended with Neal - like that was her working through those issues by not letting other guys get away with what she thought he had done and, possibly, trying to make up for her own crimes. But because things played out differently in this story it just didn't work. I honestly tried to steer her in that direction in very early drafts - it was this whole plot where, instead of getting called down to see Lucy, she got a call saying that there had been a robbery at the restaurant and that Mark had been shot. And, as it probably sounds, it all just felt very contrived. It didn't have a connection to anything and it was plot pushing characters which I'm not a big fan of. So I went back to the drawing board and the number one issue that was still driving Emma was her abandonment issues. And Neal too. So The Youth Center was born!

I was worried that it would change a lot of things, and it obviously does, but I realized that was sort of the point. It can be debated whether he was right or not, but August clearly believed that Neal needed to step out of the way in order for Emma to do her job. August presented it as Neal was bad for her - but maybe it wasn't him being bad for Emma, Ordinary Girl, but for Emma the Savior. Emma's happy and stable and doing well, but _she's doing well_. She's setting down roots and she has different priorities. It's good for her, but are those things conducive to breaking curses and going up against evil queens and what have you? It's a question I was definitely interested in exploring.

Also, looking back at season one - there are a lot of kids with issues running around Storybrooke, so ... just something to think about.

As for August I'd say read closely.

Thanks again everyone! This story will be continued in ... **A Flock of Argonauts**

"Porter had magic. This was not a question. It just was. An unmistakeable, undeniable fact that no one had noticed but Neal."


End file.
